


all things together and under the earth

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alliances, Crime Scenes, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Families of Choice, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, House Cleaning, Love Triangles, M/M, Mentors, Pack Dynamics, Rough Sex, Slow Build, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 120,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a ragtag gang of teenagers somehow becomes Derek's pack. And in which pack somehow becomes synonymous with family.</p><p>There's murder and mayhem, and a briefcase full of money, and the rebuilding of a home, and bruises and love bites, and tangled webs of private lives. And somewhere in the middle of all of this, Derek falls in love with the sheriff's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the kids are alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this story is NOT compliant with Season 2. (Meaning several key developments in the second season are disregarded entirely for the purposes of this story.) Think of this as a post-Season 1 divergence from canon.

**I.**

Harken now: the early morning whippoorwill with its ethereal song. Melodious trilling, stretching out in planes of sound in the haze of the sunshine. Nature’s soundtrack for the collection of dust gathering in suspension, all bits and flakes and particles hovering in beams of light coming down through the branches of the forest in evanescent rays.

It’s cold today, and the clouds above roll wide and white in their airborne spread. The road stretches far in twisted formation, cutting a black and yellow line through the uneven landscape. A cement scar against the smattering of trees and suburban houses that pepper the mountainous earth.

A car whizzes by, and the sound can be heard as a muffled whirring from within the confines of the upstairs bedroom of the Hale house. Derek sits awake by the window, gazing out into the woods, squinting against the sunrise light shining in and casting curious shadows through the spiderweb cracks in the glass.

The room is empty apart from the mattress - no bed frame, no sheets - and the old record player lying nearby in the corner. The dusty music box is one of the few salvaged remains of the house as it once was, and Derek likes to keep it close by. It makes the place feel like home. As much as it can anymore, at least. 

He can remember times as a young child when he would run laughing with Laura through the downstairs halls, and the sound of his father’s favorite records would fill the quiet space as his mother stood by the kitchen sink preparing fresh meat for dinner. Not longer after returning to Beacon Hills, he’d found the player lying in a cardboard box under the plastic table in the basement, and the feel of it’s wooden edges against his fingertips had nearly reduced him to tears. 

The only time he’d ever come close to actually crying since the night of the fire.

He rises now, grunting as he presses down on his knees for support. He breathes on the glass and wipes away the morning dew so as better to see. The needle of the player falls into place on its own accord, and the disc begins to spin in place. The smooth, crackly sound of vinyl fills the room as the guitars thrum and Bob Dylan starts up his apocalyptic wail:

_Darkness at the break of noon_

_Shadows even the silver spoon_

_The handmade blade, the child's balloon_

_Eclipses both the sun and moon_

_To understand you know too soon_

_There is no sense in trying..._

Derek heaves out a deep sigh, blinks away the dust of sleep and turns, moving away from the window and around the mattress to kneel beside the phonograph. He lifts the needle out of place, cutting the music off abruptly.

There is a muffled sound downstairs, almost too quiet for even his enhanced hearing. A quiet squeak. The groan of the rotted-out living room floorboards.

His footsteps come down hard on the staircase, shoes thumping on the steps, callused hand lazily grazing the banister. He hears another groan, human this time, and as he rounds the bend and pokes his head over the landing, he can see the kid slowly waking on the floor, shuddering with cold.

“Jackson,” he says, soft and short. The boy jerks, neck twisting to face him, eyes unfocused and bleary.

“Ugh...” he mutters, and his mouth stretches wide in a yawn, snapping shut quickly as he winces in pain, hand coming up to grab at his shoulder. Blinking, his gaze becomes more sober, more aware. He looks down at the torn fabric of his shirt and pushes it away, exposing the bare skin just below his neck, somewhere above his heart. He swallows thickly, rubbing the bite marks. “Did it work?” he asks, not looking up, still staring at the scars. “Am I like you now?”

Derek huffs quietly, disbelieving. His mouth quirks up at the side in spite of himself, and he pads over, crouching when he reaches the kid’s prostrate form. Jackson looks up, startled, and he flinches away as Derek’s hand extends to cup his jaw. Ignoring his discomfort, Derek grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks his head back to examine Jackson’s face. The kid grimaces as Derek’s fingers tug, and his eyes flash gold, fiery and alive. Derek’s smirk widens into a full grin. “Yes,” he says, letting go and rising to his feet. “You are.”

Jackson’s angry glare vanishes, replaced by cautious optimism. “Really?” He glances back down at his shoulder, lifting his hand to touch it once more. His eyebrows knit together in the middle. “Will these fade?” he asks, concerned now, indicating the wounds. “Or am I stuck with them forever?”

Derek snorts, gazing down at him. “They’ll fade over the next few days. You’ll be good as new by the end of the week.”

He watches silently as the boy stands shakily, knees buckling. He makes no move to help. “So what now?” Jackson asks, blinking rapidly, trying to stand upright. “What happens now?”

Derek cocks his head to the side, lifts an eyebrow appraisingly. “Why don’t you tell me what you think is going to happen,” he says. “And then I can disabuse you of your illusions.”

Jackson licks his dry lips nervously, suddenly wary. “I - I didn’t, uh, really think past the whole...the whole wanting to be a werewolf thing,” he stammers, voice low and strained. And it’s such an uncharacteristic moment of naked honesty, Derek can’t really find the fun in toying with the kid’s emotions.

“You’re with me now,” he says bluntly, loud enough to draw the boy’s attention, make those bright eyes snap up to meet his own. “That’s non-negotiable.” He takes a step forward, moving into the younger werewolf’s space, and Jackson lets out a mild whimper, ducking his head in instinctive submission. Derek forces back a smile at the ease of it. “Whatever plans you’ve thought up, whatever ideas you’ve got about how this is going to be...I want you to scrap all of that right now. Consider it finished.” He reaches out and grabs Jackson’s shoulder, squeezes it hard until the kid reluctantly lifts his head to meet his eyes again. “It’s not like you’re my slave,” Derek continues, gentler. “But there is a certain measure of respect that will be expected. I am your Alpha. You need to trust me. And I need to be able to trust you.”

Jackson blinks at him, and Derek watches as he lifts his hand to the back of his neck, rubbing the place where the scratches have now healed over. “I’m sure you can understand why that might not be so easy,” Jackson mutters.

Derek nods slowly. “I’m not saying it will happen right away,” he relents. “Or that it will come easily. In all likelihood, it won’t be easy at all. You’re going to fuck something up.” He raises a hand, preemptively cutting off Jackson’s annoyed protest. “It was the same with Scott,” he clarifies. “He was a mess in the beginning. And he still doesn’t have it completely under control.” He takes a step back, allowing Jackson his space. “You’re going to fuck up,” he reiterates. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. But that’s okay.” He nods thoughtfully, more to himself than to Jackson. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs.

There’s a brief silence, made uncomfortable by Jackson’s awkward stance, shifting his weight back on one foot, staring blankly and clearing his throat nervously.

The whippoorwill’s call comes in clear once more, and Derek shakes himself out of his musings. He turns his back on Jackson, leaving for the door. “Go home,” he calls absently. “Get some rest.”

Jackson jolts, surprised. “But...what about...” He pauses. “What happens now?”

Derek looks over his shoulder, flashes him a quick glance. “Come by later,” he says vaguely. “Tonight. Around nine, maybe. But rest now.”

The door swings shut behind him, and Jackson is left alone in the empty house, standing still in the light from the window. He breathes in deep, inhaling the musty scent of the woodwork. He gasps, awed at the extent of his sensory range. 

Everything’s in focus. It’s all _here._

_  
_

**II.**

The hospital room is a mess of wires, all trailing down from her arms and up to the machine that beeps in rhythm and flashes its red and green lights like warning signs. They’ve taken her off the oxygen system and she’s breathing normally, but there’s still no telling when she’ll wake up or how much she’ll be able to remember.

The nurse gives Derek a suspicious once-over, clearly ill at ease with his presence. He ignores the stare, moves on into the room to sit bedside. He takes the girl’s hand, tilting his head as he watches her sleep, and the nurse, begrudgingly satisfied that he seems to be familiar with the patient, leaves the two of them alone.

Derek releases her hand, sits back in his chair. He gazes unblinkingly, thoughtfully.

Lydia. That’s her name. Lydia Martin.

He can see the appeal, can understand Stiles’ hopeless crush, Jackson’s teenage lust. She’s the type of girl that he himself, were he just a few years younger and still in high school, would probably have pined after. She’s got that independent streak. That secretive sort of smile that says _You can look, but you can’t touch. I can be rented, but never owned._ He’s seen her around town, spotted her in the mess of students in the high school halls on the rare occasion he’s stopped by in the past to yell at Scott or threaten Jackson.

She’d make a good addition, he thinks. Every pack needs a female presence to balance out all of the testosterone, all of the macho posturing and male ego.

Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady motion beneath the thin layer of the hospital gown. Even lying comatose, face untouched by makeup, she looks good, healthy. Well enough to wake at any moment.

Well enough for the bite.

Derek shifts in his seat, leaning forward on the cushion, hovering over the girl’s sleeping form. He chances a look at the door. Through the rectangular glass window, he can see the nurse leaning against the counter at the end of the hall, chatting with the receptionist and scribbling down a patient report on her clipboard, her nails rapping on the wood frame, scrubs bunching up around her waist and ankles. Her attention is focused elsewhere. No one would see. No one would know.

He gingerly folds back the hem of the lime green covers, exposing Lydia’s pale arm, lying limply at her side. Leaning in further still, he lifts her wrist to his mouth, allowing his fangs to extend, sharp and glistening in the fluorescent glow. The artificial lights above hum dully.

Opening his jaw, he takes pause. Just for a moment. 

There _is_ the question of choice here. The moral dilemma of forcing this way of life upon another living being. That said, he reminds himself, she’s already in it. She already knows. And she’ll be safer with the means to protect herself. Doesn’t she deserve that?

And so he bites. Hard, drawing blood instantly, tongue licking frantically at the skin to lap it all up, sucking it down and wetting her forearm. Her eyelids twitch, and there’s a hint of a reactionary grimace, but she does not wake, doesn’t move in any other regard. There’s a roll of gauze lying close by, and Derek takes it in hand, wiping away the crimson residue on his lips with the sleeve of his jacket, wrapping the bandages around the wound to stem the blood flow.

Even as he works the wrappings, he can see the marks beginning to shrink, cuts starting to heal over almost imperceptibly. And try as he might, he can't entirely smother the feeling of satisfaction at knowing that he’s managed to succeed where his uncle failed. That _his_ bite took almost instantaneously, whereas Peter’s didn’t take at all. 

Standing, he throws the sheets back over the girl’s arm, takes a moment to lay his palm flat against her forehead, checking her temperature. His mouth twists upward at the side  approvingly.

As the door opens with a creak and his shoes tap on the tile floor as he walks off towards the exit, the blip of the heart monitor begins to pick up pace.

Lydia’s eyes flutter. Her breathing hitches.

 

**III.**

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when Stiles comes back into the bedroom, hair still damp from his morning shower, towel slung low around his waist.

The kid makes a sort of strangled shrieking noise, falling backwards against the door, head banging on the frame as he clutches the towel tightly, protectively. Wincing, he reaches up with one arm to scratch his head.

“Damn it,” he hisses, sinking to the floor to rub his bruise.

“Stiles?” a voice calls up the staircase, muffled by the closed door. “You okay?”

Stiles flashes a half-annoyed, half-fearful glance at Derek, twists his neck around to call under the crack at the bottom of the door. “I’m fine, Dad. Just stepped on...my belt.”

There’s a pause, followed up with the distant sound of the sheriff shuffling about in the kitchen. He doesn’t bother to respond.

Stiles stands awkwardly, gripping the towel so fiercely, his knuckles are actually starting to turn white. “Dude,” he says indignantly. “You have seriously _got_ to stop with the creeper routine. You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, and I am going to _die_ , and then Scott won’t have a best friend to keep him out of trouble, and the two of you will go on a rabies rampage and rip everybody’s throats out, and my dad’s going to have a shit-ton of paperwork to do, and it will be _all your fault_.” He pauses to take a breath, the stops short. His eyes widen with curiosity. “Oh yeah. So things have happened now, haven’t they? What with your uncle and everything.” His face contorts into a weird expression somewhere between sympathy and nervousness. The result being that he just looks constipated. “So what’s going on?”

“I need you to clear your schedule,” Derek says, delicately ignoring Stiles’ rant. “We have to make a stop later.”

Stiles blinks at him. Nods slowly. “Umm...yeah, okay. Sure, buddy.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Where are we going?”

Derek stands, dusting off the knees of his jeans. He pulls himself to full height, still staring at Stiles, expression blank. “The Argents’ house.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Uh...ugh. Of course we are.” He sucks in his lower lip, thinking. “Is this, like, an intimidation type deal? Because if so, you might be better off with Scott. Or, you know, _anybody_ else. Anybody other than me. Seriously, I’m completely useless at being all growly and threatening. Not my thing. That’s _your_ thing-”

“Just be ready at seven,” Derek interrupts. Then, with just a hint of a threat, “Understand?”

Stiles swallows, chuckles nervously. “Sure. No problem.” He pauses, expecting Derek to continue. His cheeks flush red, and a droplet of water comes down from his sideburns and trails down his jawline to roll down his neck. Derek absently follows its path with his eyes, watching, and Stiles flushes even redder. “Could you, like, turn around for a second?” he asks weakly. “So I can get changed?”

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Derek turns, facing the window and staring out while Stiles rummages around in his chest of drawers, scrambling to pull out a pair of clothes. The day is shaping up nicely, clouds clearing in the sky to make way for the sun. It’s warmer now, at least for this season’s weather, and the breeze is actually pleasant for once. Tranquil, even.

He hears Stiles cough, and he turns around. The boy is clothed now, buttoning up his jeans, green shirt wrinkled around the hem. The v-neck swoop of the collar clings to his skin, held in place by the moisture from the shower. Derek blinks, lifting his eyes to meet Stiles’. 

“So...is that it?” the kid asks, dark-colored eyebrows arched in expectation.

Derek cocks his head, hearing the sound of footsteps padding around downstairs, headed towards the front door. He nods curtly, taking to the window. “For now,” he says. “Be ready tonight.”

He drops down the side of the house, landing in a crouch, fingertips grazing the wall. Stiles pokes his head out the window, looking down at him with a scowl. “Really?” he calls. “You’re not going to clarify at all?”

Derek looks up at him, points vaguely to the left. Walking around the corner, he hears the lock turning in the front door. Standing on the driveway, he waits patiently and somehow manages to restrain a smirk when the sheriff comes down the steps and stops dead, wide-eyed.

The man’s hand twitches, and Derek’s gaze is drawn instinctively to the gun in its holster. 

Raising his palms in surrender, Derek smiles, a perfect picture of politeness. “I understand you want to see me for questioning,” he says calmly.

The door swings open again, and Stiles comes around the corner, jaw dropped wide in disbelief. His father wheels around, waves him away. “Get back in the house, Stiles,” he says sharply. “Now.”

Stiles stands shock-still for a moment, then nods, backing away slow. He stares at Derek, mouthing a silent _What the fuck?_ as he retreats.

The sheriff turns back to Derek, face guarded and alert. Derek shrugs, gesturing at the police cruiser parked on the curb. “Shall we?” he says.

 

**IV.**

The walls of the interrogation room are decrepit and lined, worn down by age and use. Derek sits back in the tiny chair, rocking back and forth with his knees wedged up against the edge of the table, staring across at the officers.

The sheriff is standing in the corner, glaring at his reflection in the two-way mirror, rubbing at his chin distractedly. The other officer is seated across from Derek, trying to glare him into spontaneous confession.

Like that’s going to work.

“Why should we believe you?” he barks out, nose crinkled, mouth curled up in an ugly sneer. “We have reliable witnesses who’s pegged you as our perp. What’s to say we should take your word over theirs?”

Derek drops his knees away from the table, propping his elbows up on the flat surface. He meets the man’s glare with bored blankness, unimpressed. “Because they recanted, for starters,” he deadpans, savoring the irritated twitch of the officer’s left eye. He glances up at the sheriff expectantly. “Isn’t that correct, sir?”

The sheriff lifts his palms to his face, sighs. “They have since argued that their initial assessment of you was unfair, yes.” He drops his hands, coming over to the table to sit by his partner, reversing his chair so that the backrest is in front. He matches Derek’s blank stare with calm ease. “However, we still need to clear up some things.”

Derek shrugs acceptingly, leaning back again. 

The hard-faced officer opens up his pack of cigarettes, setting one alight and puffing away, smoke billowing up around his mouth and trailing in wisps at the end of the glowing stick.

The sheriff casts him a reprimanding look, but he doesn’t comment. He opens up the tan folder on the table, clucking his tongue silently as he flips through the pages. “Your current residence?”

“My childhood home,” Derek replies, biting back the snarky _But you already knew that_.

“Okay.” The sheriff nods meaninglessly, lifting up a corner and glancing at the next page. Derek catches a glimpse of his own photograph, glaring at the camera in trademark scowl. His lips twist up in a smile. 

The smoking officer huffs, irritated, still glaring. He takes a long drag, sucking down the smoke and tapping the ash into a little bowl at the corner of the table.

“That’s fine,” the sheriff continues. “That’s okay. No laws broken there.” He shrugs. “It’s a bit...unsettling, you have to admit. Living by yourself in that place?” 

There’s no question there, but he says it like it is, and he’s got a look on his face as though he’s expecting an answer. Derek just shrugs. “I guess,” he says, keeping his voice neutral, avoiding a petulant tone.

The sheriff drops the subject. “You uncle,” he says, folding his hands and resting his chin where the knuckles join. “He’s gone missing from the hospital.”

Again, spoken as if that’s a question and not merely a statement of fact. Derek nods. “I’ve been told.”

“A bit strange, don’t you think?” the smoking officer interjects, voice laced with sarcasm. “A little weird, isn’t it? That a man who’s been catatonic for years would just suddenly up and disappear one day. A little... _funny_ , eh?”

Derek turns a contemptuous gaze on him. “I don’t find it all that amusing myself,” he says mock-innocently.

The officer grunts, looking away to glare at the wall, flicking more ash into the bowl. The sheriff’s mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a smile. He glances down at the folder, then back to Derek. “You don’t know anything about what happened to him?” he asks.

A memory swims to the surface of Derek’s mind, quick and vivid: standing in the woods in the dead of night, shovel in hand, arms caked with mud and grime, panting heavily above the deep hole in the earth, kicking the charred and mangled body into the opening. He doesn’t let it show on his face. Just shakes his head and says, “No. No idea.” Then, directing his attention to the other officer, “That’s _your_ job, isn’t it? That’s police business, right?”

The officer snorts, takes another drag. The sheriff frowns, brow crinkling. He waves a hand in front of his face. “Take that outside, won’t you, Phil?” he asks, polite but adamant.

The chair creaks as the officer rises, huffing and muttering under his breath. He spares a moment to glare at Derek once more before exiting. Derek can hear the sounds of telephones ringing and aimless chatter out in the main room, cut off swiftly as the door snaps shut.

A rustling noise draws his attention, and he turns back to the sheriff, stomach flip-flopping as the man produces a photograph of Kate Argent lying on the floor, eyes glazed over and unfocused, throat ripped wide open.

He swallows thickly, staring as the sheriff slides the picture over to his side of the table.

“You knew her,” the sheriff says, and it’s definitely _not_ a question this time. His expression isn’t accusing anymore. Just thoughtful, studious.

Derek nods. “Yes,” he replies, pushing the picture away. “We have...had history.”

The sheriff leans forward in his chair, gripping the sides of the backrest, thumbs rubbing the smooth surface. His mouth draws together in a thin line, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he gauges Derek’s reaction. “She was a strange woman,” he says cryptically. “Very much so.”

Derek looks away, stares at the mirror intently, as though he can see through it if he glares hard enough. “No argument there, sir.”

A pause.

The sheriff closes the folder, reaches up to wipe his brow. He sighs, shaking his head, lost in thought. “You’re not a murderer, are you, son?” he asks quietly.

Again, the image of Peter’s face flashes before Derek’s mind. The feel of his uncle’s flesh being torn to shreds beneath his claws. _Depends on how you define murder_ , his mind supplies. Out loud, he says, “No. I’m not.”

The sheriff studies his face for a few seconds, eyes piercing and focused. Then he nods to himself, apparently satisfied. “Okay,” he says, and Derek’s not entirely sure whether he sounds reluctant or relived. Or just plain tired. “Okay.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, glances at the door meaningfully. “Okay?” he asks.

The sheriff stands, and Derek stands with him. He extends his hand. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ll get you processed, go over a few more things, then...” He shrugs. “Then that’s it.”

Derek takes his hand, shakes it. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Sincerely.”

 

**V.**

Everything is sharper somehow, clearer. All of the details that once faded into the background of the larger picture now strike out loud, crystalline and focused and pervading every one of Derek’s senses. He can understand now, can see how this power - being Alpha - can lend itself to destructive tendencies. These sensations...

He could get drunk on this.

He’s running now, wild and free and naked through the woods in the bright of day, too fired up and hotblooded to give a damn if he’s seen. The scent of pine fills his nostrils, intermingling with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle. He breathes in the cool air, sharp and fresh within his lungs. Panting as he runs, the smells of the forest are alive and pervasive; he can taste them on his tongue. 

Shifting comes so smoothly now, muscles rippling with every powerful stride forward, bones cracking in their sockets and realigning to fit in their Alpha form. His teeth grow and recede, eyes burning like smoldering embers in his skull. Even with his skin reddening in the bite of the wind, his body temperature continues to rise, blood thundering through his veins like molten lava. 

He closes his eyes, branches and brambles whacking at his cheeks as he charges through the undergrowth, cuts healing instantly, beads of blood dripping uselessly down to splatter on the leaves. He can feel the shift, and it’s not _easy_ , it’s not controllable or tamed. It’s like being high with just enough sobriety to have the strength to stop short just before diving over the brink into oblivion. 

It’s a head-rush, most certainly.

Eventually it ends. Eventually he tires, and he skids to a halt in a clearing mere yards away from his house, coming down from his werewolf form and curling up to catch his breath in the cluster of leaves at the base of a crooked tree. He huffs a breathless little laugh, exhilarated and just a bit afraid of himself. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, basking in the odor of rich soil and autumn bark dust.

The wind picks up, and the tree tops rustle violently, sending a shower of pine needles trailing down to tickle his face. He blinks up at the sky through the canopy, slowly allowing his heart rate to return to normal pace.

After some time, he rises. Stands tall and naked and cold in the woods, looking up the slope at the charred, hollowed-out shell of a place he calls home. Reaching across his chest to rub at his bicep, he makes his way up the hill to the house to grab a change of clothes.

The earth beneath his toes is rough, solid. A raccoon darts out of the bushes and seizes a pinecone, taking pause to watch him before disappearing into a hole in the ground.

The wind dies down.

 

**VI.**

The boy is standing in his bedroom, looking at himself in the mirror. It’s not an appraising stare, not the sort of egotistic self-worshipping assessment Derek imagines Jackson to participate in on a regular basis.

No, it’s more curious, frustrated. The stare of a lost soul, apprehensive of the future and uncertain of identity. 

Derek’s been there. He gets it. And so he doesn’t protest when, upon stepping through the window and clearing his throat to announce his presence, Scott whirls on him and snarls, eyes flashing angrily.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he snaps, echoing Stiles’ statement from earlier. “You can’t just sneak up on people. It’s creepy.”

Derek situates himself on the edge of the kid’s desk, arms crossed. He scratches his cheek. “I thought you’d be able to hear me coming,” he replies with affectless honesty.

Scott’s eyes dim, reverting to their natural, human state. “Well,” he mutters. “I didn’t.” He moves away from the mirror, sitting down near the foot of the bed, springs of the mattress creaking underneath his weight. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop by the house tonight,” Derek says, cutting right to the point.

Scott’s expression betrays no hint of his feelings, heartbeat pounding steady and slow. “Why?” he deadpans.

Derek coughs. “Pack meeting.”

There’s a pause, and Derek steels himself, ready for the inevitable protests, the petulant complaints.

Instead, he gets, “What time?”

Derek blinks. “Around nine.”

Scott nods slowly, looking away to the ground, lower lip receding into his mouth, caught between his teeth. He threads his fingers through his shaggy hair, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation. He sighs, but it sounds to Derek more tired than put-upon. Simple exhaustion. “That’ll be a small gathering, won’t it?” Scott pipes up, still looking at the floor. “Just you and me, isn’t it? And Stiles.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably on the desk. “There will be more,” he offers in non-explanation.

Scott looks up, eyebrow raised in question, but he doesn’t ask, and Derek doesn’t elaborate.

The room is a mess, as one would expect a teenage boy’s room to be. There are posters nailed to the wall and piles of clothes bunched up in corners. The bedspread is wrinkled and folded back, exposing the dark sheets beneath. Derek breathes in, picking up the different scents that hover in the air, cling to the carpet. Scott’s own, overriding everything else. The Argent daughter, his girlfriend. Another female, probably his mother. Stiles, too, underneath it all.

Derek stands up, rubbing his hands together. He makes a soft noise, a wordless farewell, and turns to leave.

“Is that all?” Scott’s voice follows him, low and strained. Derek freezes with one hand on the window frame. “Is that it?”

“No,” Derek answers, dropping his hand, twisting back around. He looks down, meets Scott’s gaze. “No it isn’t.”

Scott chews on his lip, unsure of what to say. “They’re going to kill me, you know,” he comes out with eventually. “They’re going to _kill_ me. I know we’re not exactly friends, but does that seriously not matter to you? Even a little bit?”

Derek flinches - he can’t help himself. Sitting down on the bed beside Scott, he glares him down, stares at the younger boy until he has to look away. “They’re not going to,” he says roughly. “I won’t let them.”

“You might not have a choice,” Scott mutters. “They’ve been doing this for a long time, I’m sure.”

“So have I.” Impulsively, Derek reaches across and wraps his arm around Scott’s shoulders, grabbing hold of him. Scott blinks, clearly baffled by the gesture, but he doesn’t shove his arm away. “I’m your Alpha now,” Derek growls, fierce and adamant. “You are pack. I’m going to protect you. They won’t touch a hair on your head. I’ll make sure of it.”

Scott looks at him doubtfully, torn between surprise and confusion. “I...” he starts, trailing off. He coughs. “Okay...”

Derek stands, looks down at him. “It had to be me,” he says, quieter, voice somber. “Even if the cure is real, even if it isn’t a myth. I had to be the one to do it. There was no other way.”

Scott bites his lip. Hard. Almost enough to draw blood. He lets out a shaky sigh, nodding jerkily. “I know,” he breathes out, barely audible.

“No you don’t.” Derek shakes his head. “You don’t.” He crouches down briefly, stopping at Scott’s eye level. “You’re a child,” he says, and holds up a hand to cut off the anticipated retort. “That’s not an insult. It’s just the truth. You’re young, and you’re a kid, and there was never any fucking way I was going to let you do that. Not a chance. And not just because if the cure _did_ turn out to be bullshit, you’d be stuck as the Alpha - a responsibility you wouldn’t even know where to begin with.” He reaches out, grabs the back of Scott’s hair and tugs, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I’ve lived with this all my life,” he says softly, enunciating every word. “And I’ve struggled to keep it in check. To not hurt anyone.” He swallows. “When you do...” he starts. “Kill someone... _If_ you do. If you ever have to...you’ll understand then. You’ll understand why I couldn’t let you do it.”

He releases his hold on Scott’s hair, steps back to give the other boy his space. Scott looks shaken, bewildered. His mouth works silently. “Oh...” he breathes.

Derek nods curtly, standing and making for the window. “Nine tonight,” he reminds him. “Don’t be late.”

He steps over the sill and drops out of sight.

 

**VII.**

Stiles is punctual. Derek’s got to give the kid points for that, at least.

He’s ready and waiting when Derek arrives at seven, sitting on the front porch, leaning up against the closest support beam. His jacket is zipped up all the way, bunching out at odd angles, legs dangling down off the side of the front steps. He’s texting, eyes glued to the tiny screen of his cell.

Derek’s foot comes down to snap a twig, and Stiles looks up, waving in greeting.

“Ready, dude?”

Derek nods, jerking his thumb in the direction of Stiles’ Jeep. “We’re taking yours.”

Stiles shrugs, standing up. He lifts a hefty, plastic-wrapped plate from the stoop next to him. Derek frowns at it. “Veggie platter,” Stiles explains, tilting it slightly so Derek can see. “Carrots and celery and dip. A whole cornucopia of health nut wonders.”

Derek arches an eyebrow.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t you know anything about bribery? If you want to make nice with the Argents, you have to coax them into liking you with tasty treats. And nothing speaks to a responsible adult’s heart like a plate of healthy greens. Not that the Argents are responsible adults. Or that they’re going to give two shits about me bringing them food. But I was hungry and I figured it would be rude to bring chips. You know, because of the crackly bags? So...yeah.”

Derek rolls his eyes, walking around to the passenger’s side.

The Jeep rumbles, kicking into drive, and the CD player clicks on, neon glow of the digital clock illuminating the dashboard.

_...Growin' fond of Detox Mansion_

_And this quiet life I lead_

_But I'm just dying to tell my story_

_For all my friends to read_

_Well, it's tough to be somebody_

_And it's hard to keep from fallin' apart_

_Up here on Rehab Mountain_

_We gonna learn these things by heart..._

Derek frowns. “Zevon?” he asks, not quite containing his surprise.

Bobbing his head along with the music, Stiles nods, waggling his eyebrows. “Best Of, yeah. My dad gave it to me for my last birthday. Funny stuff.” A curious gleam comes into his eyes and a goofy grin spreads across his face. He reigns it in, glancing at Derek mischievously.

Derek’s frown deepens, suspicious. Seconds later, “No.” He glares, but Stiles ignores him, clicking the skip button on the dash. “ _No._ ”

Stiles settles on the next track, beaming.

_I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand_

_Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain-_

Derek’s hand darts out to click the power button, cutting the music off. He glowers silently, resisting the urge to smack the kid. A feat made harder by the idiot’s nervous giggling.

Stiles wipes tears of mirth out of his eyes. “Sorry,” he apologizes, still smiling. “Couldn’t resist.”

 

**VIII.**

“We brought celery,” Stiles offers tentatively, raising the plate when Chris Argent opens the door.

The hunter just glares, stepping aside so they can enter.

His wife is standing in the kitchen, chopping up chicken by the sink. She pauses, eyes narrowing when they enter through the archway into the room. 

Derek breathes in deep, taking in the smells of the room. He glances at the empty kitchen table, nostrils flaring. A small, somewhat nasty smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he moves around to the back, slow and purposeful. He sits in Kate’s chair.

Mr. Argent returns to the room, fists clenching at his side as he sees Derek’s position. A muscle in his jaw tics, teeth gritted together. Like he knows exactly what Derek is doing.

“Celery,” Stiles interjects quickly, trying to break the tension. He moves around to sit beside Derek, pushing the platter towards the center of the table. He gestures for Mrs. Argent to join them. “Carrots, too,” he sing-songs coaxingly, squawking when Derek kicks him in the shin.

The couple pulls back their chairs, sit down together across from Stiles and Derek.

They all stare at each other. The clock on the wall ticks in merry rhythm.

“What?” Chris asks, clipped tone, no-nonsense and to the point.

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but Derek gets there before him. “I don’t want there to be any ambiguity here,” he says coldly. “No guessing room. I want to know exactly where we stand.”

The Argents look at each other, communicating silently. Stiles’ foot taps with nervous energy underneath the table. Derek steps down on it, eliciting a mousy squeak.

“We are aware now that you aren’t responsible for the recent killings,” Chris says carefully, delicately. He claps his hands together, dropping them to the polished surface of the table.

“We have a code,” Victoria chimes in. Derek huffs skeptically, and she bites down on her lip, restraining the urge to lash out. “It’s true. Not all hunters follow it, as you know...” She trails off, and there is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Derek shifts in his chair. “...but we aren’t like that. We don’t kill unless given no other recourse.”

“You tried to kill Scott!” Stiles snaps, ignoring Derek’s murderous look. “He didn’t do shit, and you-”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek growls. He turns back to face Chris. “It is true, though,” he says, quieter. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t try again?”

Chris breathes in through his nose, a sharp, whistling sound. “We had bad information,” he replies. “We thought he was responsible for the attacks.”

“Perhaps you should reevaluate the importance of fact-checking,” Derek snarks, oozing sarcasm.

Chris glares, and Victoria reaches over to take his hand in hers. “We won’t hurt the boy,” she says. “So long as his condition doesn’t lead him to violence.”

“What about Allison?” Stiles pipes up again, flinching when Derek turns an annoyed eye on him.

Victoria frowns. “What about her?”

Derek discreetly places a hand on Stiles’ knee, trying to marshall him into silence. “What are your feelings on your daughter’s relationship with Scott?” he asks. “Now that you know he is...like me.”

Chris folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his seat. “What business is that is yours?” he responds coldly.

“Well...” Derek grinds out, “they’re teenagers. They’re young and stupid. And in love, as much as kids can be. And they are going to...mess around. As I’m sure you’re not naive enough to be unaware of.” He cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “I want your assurances that you aren’t going to go around sticking a gun in his face if you happen to catch them doing something you don’t approve of.”

Chris’ jaw tightens, but Victoria interjects before he can reply. “Done,” she says shortly. “Next.”

Derek nods, relaxing slightly. “I propose a policy of mutual avoidance. We keep pack activities relegated to the woods, away from the town, and in return, you stay out of our business.”

“I can’t guarantee protection from other hunters,” Chris says, watching as Stiles reaches out to snag a carrot from the plate. “But as we’ve already stated, as long as you aren’t violent, we won’t get in your way."

“Good.” Derek leans back. “Alright.”

Chris brings his hand up to his lips, balled up in a fist. He taps it against his mouth, thinking. “I don’t want you infecting more people, though,” he says after a minute or so. “Don’t pass the bite on to anyone else.”

Derek’s mouth twists up at the side. “Not counting today, I assume?”

The Argents look at each other. Stiles pauses in the middle of chewing, glancing at Derek in surprise. Chris glares daggers at the table. “Who?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Jackson Whittemore,” Derek answers readily. “And Lydia Martin. That’s it.”

Stiles chokes, bringing a fist up to his mouth, coughing. His cheeks burn red.

Victoria makes a soft, disapproving noise. Chris just shakes his head, disgusted. “No more,” he says warningly. “That’s non-negotiable.”

Derek nods. “Agreed.”

“There will be repercussions if you violate the agreement,” Victoria says lowly, dangerously.

Derek flashes her a feral grin, a white-toothed smirk. “Likewise.”

 

**IX.**

“All things considered,” Stiles says later, padding down the driveway with Derek at his side, “that actually went pretty well. Nobody got killed, at least!”

Derek whips out his cell, checks the time. “Pack meeting in twenty,” he says gruffly, drawing his jacket tight around his shoulders, shielding himself from the cold. “My house.”

Stiles blinks. Nods slowly. “Alright then. I won’t lie, I’m a little meeting-ed out at the moment, but I guess one more couldn’t hurt.”

“I need you to pick up Lydia,” Derek says, ignoring him. “She’ll have been discharged from the hospital by now. Do whatever’s necessary to make her come.”

Stiles nods agreeably. He pauses, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’ve been trying to do that for years, buddy. It’s a delicate art.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, barely holding back a groan. “Just do it.”

“Fine.” Stiles grin slips away, drooping into a sulk. “Just a joke...”

He steps up into the Jeep, kicking it into drive. He starts to back out of the driveway, headlights flashing in Derek’s eyes. The window rolls down, and he pokes his head out, all wide-eyed and curious. “By the way,” he says slowly, “I was wondering. Why did you want me to come with you for this?”

Derek looks at him blankly. “You’re human,” he deadpans. “Less risk of them starting something with an innocent nearby.”

Stiles frowns doubtfully. “Hasn’t stopped them before,” he mutters. He reaches over, turning the radio dial up. “Whatever. See you soon.” The window rolls back up as the vehicle winds its way up to the pavement of the road, tires screeching at the turn.

Derek watches as the headlamps disappear behind the trees as Stiles rounds the bend, sniffs wetly in the cold and the dark. He glances over his shoulder at the house, spotting Chris staring at him from the upstairs window. Smirking, he raises two finger up to his forehead in a mock-salute, turning and shoving his hands in his pockets as he makes for the road, headed in the direction of the woods. Headed home.

An owl hoots in the distance, and Derek could swear he catches a glimpse of a small, dark shadow flying low over the canopy in the blackness ahead.

 

**X.**

End of the day. Back where he began.

The sun is down behind the horizon now, and it’s pitch black outside the window of the upstairs bedroom. But Derek’s quiet sense of cautious optimism hasn’t faded since the morning. That foreign feeling of hope, of excitement even, still lives: a tiny spark alight inside his chest.

Moving away from the window, eyes quickly adjusting to the lack of light, he stoops down beside the phonograph, brushing dust off the edges. He places the needle against the grooves of the record, allowing the music to pick up where it left off.

As the sound fills the empty space, he picks up the banging of the front door smacking open against its frame, hears the shuffling of footsteps coming up the porch and filing into the downstairs area. He hears low murmurs, young whispers in the dark.

He exits the bedroom, looming tall at the head of the staircase. A hush falls over the gathering at the bottom. He descends, feet coming down heavy on each step, floorboards creaking under his weight. Every breath is a rush of cool oxygen, lungs expanding with fresh air, nose whistling softly as he exhales.

His eyes burn red as he reaches the last step, turning the corner and moving into the living room.

They’re all here. All together: Stiles in the corner, leaning up against the wall by the window, face half in shadow, half in light, expression open and curious, nervous and cautiously excited. Lydia at his side, worn-out and exhausted and confused, but alive and awake, and defiantly unafraid, even when confronted by Derek’s formidable presence. Scott sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glowing softly in the velveteen black aura, looking up at Derek, expectant and trusting and wary all at the same time. Jackson standing in the center of the room, arms folded over his chest, pointedly looking away from Lydia, jaw set, firm.

Derek tilts his head, cracks his neck. The teenagers wince at the sound. He surveys the room, looks at each of them individually. He nods slowly, a slow smile spreading across his face. His teeth gleam white and sharp.

The sound of the record upstairs wafts mournfully down into the room:

_And if my thought-dreams could be seen_   
_They’d probably put my head in a guillotine_   
_But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only..._

“So,” he murmurs, voice cutting loud through the silence. “Here we are, kids.”


	2. deus ex machina

**I.**

How cheerfully the fire burns, twigs set ablaze in the stone pit, clippings of foliage and grass and leaves all packed together in the dirt. The wreath of pine set around the perimeter of the embers sweetens the scent, and Jackson inhales, taking in the ambrosial aroma, tongue darting out to smooth a path across his dry lips. He draws the blanket tighter around his shoulders, watching the patterns of the wispy smoke trail rising up from the flickering tendrils.

His mouth twists into a small smile. “Fuck, it’s been ages since we’ve done this.”

Danny hums in agreement, crumpling his can of Coca-Cola and tossing it onto the fire, nodding absently as the metal singes back and implodes in on itself. Sitting on the opposite side of the campfire, the glow casts curious shadows against the curve of his jaw. “We haven’t had much time for the two of us recently,” he says. And it’s not pointed, not a complaint. But the quiet sense of hurt still seems to linger under the surface.

Jackson forces himself not to wince. “I know, dude. I’m sorry.” He rubs his hands together, holding them closer to the light for warmth. “I’ve been busy.”

“I’m not accusing you,” Danny says lightly, a smile in his eyes. “That wasn’t my point.” He shrugs, falling backwards to lie flat on the grass. “I dunno. I just miss you, that’s all.”

It’s the night before spring semester, and they’re sitting together in Danny’s backyard, spending the night under the black sky in too-small sleeping bags, just like when they were kids. The stars are out tonight, shining bright in the cloudless heavens. The chirping of crickets and grasshoppers resounds in the outdoors as pleasant white noise, soft and soothing.

“I know,” Jackson says again, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. He flops down as well, gazing upward with his arms folded over his chest. “It’s been a really weird month.”

A rabbit scampers out of the bushes, dashing across the lawn and disappearing into the shrubs lining the neighbors’ fence. The thrill of a nocturnal bird’s night-call echoes above. The trees sway gently.

“I bet,” Danny says, and when Jackson cranes his neck to look, his friend’s face is guarded, carefully marshaled into neutrality.

Jackson clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

Danny shifts, turning over on his side with elbow planted on the fabric of his sleeping bag, chin propped up in his palm. He shrugs. “Just that you’ve been hanging out with McCall and Stilinski. Which is new.”

Jackson drops his head back to the ground, looking back up to survey the sky. In the periphery of his vision, he can see Danny watching him closely, studiously. “They’re not so bad, I guess. Once you get to know them.”

“Hmm.” Danny nods, even though he looks thoroughly unconvinced. “Okay.”

“Seriously though.” Jackson glances over at him, reaching up to scratch his nose. The campfire pops, sending a small shower of sparks fizzling into the air. “You were lab partners with Stilinski before Christmas, right? You know he’s alright. Talky as fuck, and nerdy. But still alright.”

Danny frowns, eyes piercing and quizzical. “Yeah, I know. But it surprises me that _you_ know. I thought you couldn’t stand the guy?”

Jackson blinks up at the stars, shrugs. He yawns, stretching his arms out and bringing his palms around to cup the back of his head. “He’s obnoxious, but he’s not the worst. And McCall’s actually a pretty good guy, I guess.”

“If you say so.” Danny flops back down on the grass, letting the subject drop.

A series of tiny blinking lights flashes overhead; red electrodes on the wingtips of a passing airplane. Too high up to hear the sound. Jackson pulls the blanket up around his chin, closing his eyes as the fire begins to die down. “Mmm...” he murmurs.

Danny gazes blankly upward, hands folded on his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. He blinks, closes his eyes, rolling over to go to sleep. “You can tell me, you know,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear. “Whatever it is that’s going on. You know you can trust me, right?”

Jackson makes an affirmative noise, yawning and rolling over to turn his back to the fire.

He doesn’t say anything else.

 

**II.**

“I didn’t see you at lunch today,” Scott says, craning his neck to press a kiss against Allison’s forehead. They’re lying together on the bedspread in his room, shoulders warmed by the light of the afternoon sun shining in from the window.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, rubs her eyes sleepily. “I had to make up a test. I ate during the next lunch period.”

“Oh.” Scott rolls over on his back, arm flopped lazily at his side. His fingers brush against hers. “Okay.”

Allison blinks tiredly, studies his expression. Her lips part in a grin. “I wasn’t avoiding you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Scott’s eyes crinkle with amusement. He squeezes her hand. “Nah, I know.”

His phone buzzes, vibrating on the bedside table, and he reaches for it blindly, flipping it open and holding it above his head, squinting at the small screen. Allison bites back a sigh, watching his expression. “Derek?” she asks quietly.

He gives her a sideways, apologetic smile. “Stiles. Reminding me about tonight.” She doesn’t answer, just makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat. Scott rolls over, propping his chin up with his palm. “You could come, you know,” he says. “To the meetings. If you wanted to.”

Allison shakes her head, spares him a brief smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Scott sucks on the inside of his cheek. “Because of your dad?” he asks cautiously.

She shrugs. “Because of a lot of things. That’s one of them.” She moves into a sitting position, legs dangling over the side of the bed, her back to Scott. She lifts her purse off the floor, fumbles around inside for a minute, pulling out a tube of chapstick. “He doesn’t like me very much,” she says. Then, clarifying, “Derek, I mean.”

Scott grimaces, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t like anyone,” he jokes. Getting no response, he continues, “He just has a hard time trusting people, that’s all. And it’s especially hard in your case because of...you know...”

Allison pops the cap back on the tube, returning it to its place. “I know what my aunt did,” she says softly. “And I’m not defending her. In any way.” She looks over her shoulder, turns to face him. “But I’m not her. I’m not responsible for her actions.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Scott amends quickly. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.” He makes a meaningless gesture, waving a hand around vaguely. “It’s just him. That’s all I’m saying. I’m sure he’d be okay with you once he gets to know you, and once he’s sure you don’t want to be a part of the family business.” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together. “You don’t want to, right?” he asks uncertainly.

“Of course not.” She stands up, flipping stray strands of hair back over her shoulders. She smiles at him, and her poker face is too convincing, too perfected for him to discern whether it’s forced or not. Scott’s phone buzzes again, and she glances at it. “You go to your meeting,” she says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.” Scott falls back on the bed, watches her leave. He hears her saying goodbye to his mother out in the downstairs hallway, hears the front door open and close behind her.

The phone buzzes a third time, and he switches it to silent, tossing it at a pile of clothes on the floor. He stares up at the still ceiling fan, tucking his hands behind his head, frowning.

 

**III.**

Derek opens up after a full five minutes of relentless knocking, and Stiles is standing there on the porch with a plain brown folder tucked under his arm and a stupid blue beanie mashed tightly over his head.

“What?” Derek asks shortly.

Stiles drops his hand, flashing him a nervous smile. “Hey, I just wanted to talk for a couple of minutes. If you’re not busy?”

Derek leans in the doorway, arm propped up against the frame. He’s sweaty from doing pull-ups in the living room, shirtless and dressed only in dark black shorts. He frowns, brow creasing. “The pack meeting is in an hour. It can’t wait?”

“Well...” Stiles slips passed him, uninvited. He steps into the foyer, pulling the hat off. His hair has grown slightly over the past few weeks, all sticking out at odd angles from the compression of the hat. It’s a strange look for him, Derek thinks. “I thought it might be better to talk in private. I didn’t want to...uh, give you the impression I was trying to undermine your authority in front of the others.”

Derek closes the door, folds his arms across his chest. “That sounds promising,” he remarks drily.

Stiles licks his chapped lips, eyes darting down to take in Derek’s semi-nakedness. “Working out?” he asks, trying for cheeriness and coming across more like he’s got something stuck in his throat.

There’s a long pause, and they just stand still, staring at each other. Derek rolls his eyes, turning to move into the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles nods agreeably, stepping out of the foyer into the main room. There’s a long wooden table squared in the center of the floor; a rotted old thing he and Scott found by the side of the highway. Stiles sits at the right-hand side of the table’s head, dropping the folder on the surface, smoothing it out. He cups his hands around his mouth, blowing on them for heat.

The wallpaper seems to have faded even more over the past month, if that’s at all possible. It’s dreary, depressing in a way that makes Stiles sad to even look at it. The soft glow of the afternoon light seeping in through the dusty windowpanes gives the color a muted, dull effect.

Derek returns from the kitchen, slipping back into his shirt. He sits down at the head of the table, props his elbows up on the edge. “What is it?” he asks, staring intently. His sideburns are moist with sweat, eyebrows darker than ever, arched. 

Stiles clears his throat, opening up the folder. “This is nothing,” he says, passing it over. “Just a chart of the lunar cycles for the year.”

“Next full moon is a week from tomorrow, yes?” Derek murmurs, squinting at the page to verify his inquiry. He looks up. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

“No.” Stiles folds his hands on the table, not meeting Derek’s eye. He chews on his bottom lip. “Now, don’t get mad...” he starts, cautiously placating.

Derek scowls. “Just tell me. I won’t bite.”

Stiles gives him a skeptical look, then drops his gaze again. “It’s just that...this whole thing, uh. Isn’t working. The way you’re... _we’re_ doing it.”

“This whole thing,” Derek repeats tonelessly. He leans back in his chair, hands gripping the gnarled knobs of the armrests. “Meaning?”

“The meetings,” Stiles explains. “I don’t think that they’re, um. I don’t think they’re supposed to be like this.”

Derek takes a deep breath, silently willing himself to be patient. He forces a tight-lipped smile, noting Stiles’ tenseness. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What are your complaints?”

Stiles swallows thickly. “Uh, well. See, _that_ right there...that’s sort of the problem, I think. You’re making this whole arrangement seem like it’s some sort of business coalition. Like you’re our boss, and we’re the employees, and all we do is meet here once a week to give you ‘status reports’ and ‘lodge complaints,’ or whatever. I can’t help but feel like this shouldn’t be so...formal. You know?”

Derek reaches up, scratches his chin. He looks away down the length of the table, staring at a spot on the wall where the wallpaper has started to peel off. The corner is folded back, revealing the moldy adhesive underneath. “We’ve only had three gatherings,” he says dismissively. “It won’t always be like this.”

“Okay...” Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his chair, finally daring to look up and match Derek’s gaze. “Any idea on when that will be?” Then, when Derek turns to glare, “Not that you have to defend yourself to me or anything, man. Dude. Boss. Sir. Uh, Derek.”

The rickety chair creaks, wooden poles groaning with strain as Derek leans forward, expression blank. “I can’t make people like each other, Stiles,” he says calmly. “You’re right that it’s not supposed to feel forced, and it’s all very awkward right now. But you have to let things progress in their own time. You and Scott are close, but the rest of us need to get to know each other before we can get beyond this stage.”

Stiles blinks. “Oh.” He sits back in his seat, looking curiously put-out. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Derek examines his nails, scraping underneath to clean away the dirt. “Is that all?” he asks lightly.

“Uh, no.” Stiles perks up, straightening. “But the rest of it can wait for the meeting, if you want.”

Derek shakes head. “Might as well get it over with, since you’re here.”

Stiles nods slowly, cheeks tinged pink from the cold and the wind outdoors. “Okay.” He sucks his lower lip in between his teeth. “Well, the other thing I was thinking about was your appearance.”

Derek blinks. “Excuse me?”

Stiles coughs awkwardly. “I mean, the way people perceive you,” he amends quickly, cheeks flushing an even brighter color. “The town.”

Derek relaxes. “Ah. Alright. What about them?”

“Well...” Stiles lifts his right hand, ticking off his points one by one. “First, there’s the issue of a job.”

“A job,” Derek repeats.

Stiles frowns slightly. “Yes. You know you don’t have to repeat everything I say, dude.” Derek just grunts, and Stiles takes that as his cue to continue. “You need a job. Like, actually. I know you’re a werewolf and you don’t really care about material possessions or whatever, and I know you can get all the food you need during your freaky midnight runs. But, see, _normal_ people don’t know that. And it’s bad enough that you live all by yourself in what’s basically a haunted fucking mansion-” Derek interrupts with a growl, and Stiles pales visibly. “Uh, I mean, this lovely, warm, inviting household...” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I see your point,” he relents grudgingly. “Staying here long-term requires some measure of appearances.” He raps his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Stiles relaxes, color returning to his face. “Good,” he says, relieved. “That’s good.” He lifts another finger. “Second, there’s the whole naked thing.”

Derek stares. Blinks. Stares some more. He stands up, making for the kitchen.

Standing hastily, Stiles follows, right on his heels. “I swear I’m being serious,” he says anxiously, bobbing and weaving and trying to get around Derek’s side to catch a glimpse of his expression. “I’m not just being stupid.”

Derek opens up the refrigerator, glancing through the various selections of meats hanging by hooks in the back. “Whatever point you’re trying to make, get to it fast. I’m going to get a headache if this conversation lasts much longer.”

“Your little hunting escapades,” Stiles interjects, rubbing at his wrist and leaning up against the wall. “You know, the whole deal about emerging bare-ass naked from the middle of the woods in the dead of night? Ringing any bells?” He pushes himself off the wall, peeking into the fridge and wrinkling his nose at the smell. “It’s bad enough when it’s just _you_ by yourself, but now that we’re all a pack or whatever, just...”

He trails off, and Derek stops rifling through the array of meat to cast him an inquisitive glance. “What?” he prompts.

Stiles coughs uncomfortably. “Umm. Just that, you know. If someone were to catch you out in the middle of nowhere with three teenagers...naked...”

Derek pauses. Grimaces. “Ah,” he grumbles, closing the refrigerator door with a sigh. “Again, I see your point.”

Stiles flails meaninglessly. “Not that I’m trying to tell you what to do,” he says, stepping back to give Derek space. “I mean, you’re Alpha and everything, and that’s cool. Your word is law and all that. I’m just _saying_...maybe it would be a good idea to move the hunting grounds a little further into the woods. _Away_ from people...”

“And I hear you,” Derek cuts in, turning around to face him head on. Stiles makes a squeaking sound, reflexively throwing an arm up to ward off a blow that never comes. Derek ignores the gesture. “I’m not unreasonable,” he says. And, after a minute, adds, “I’m not Peter.” His mouth twitches unpleasantly. “You’re allowed to question me, Stiles. This isn’t a dictatorship.”

A bird whistles cheerfully outside the nearest window, wings fluttering noisily. Stiles jumps slightly at the sound, tongue coming out to wet his dry lips. He nods absently. “Yeah, I get that,” he says. His expression softens. “I know you’re not him."

They fall silent for a moment, and the room feels strangely empty without the background noise of a ticking clock on the wall. Derek wonders vaguely whether or not he should buy one.

He leans back against the fridge, crossing his arms and tucking one foot behind the other. “So is that it?” he asks, less harshly than before.

Stiles shrugs. “For now.” His mouth twists up at the side in a slight smile. “I’ll let you know when I think of more things to bitch about.”

 

**IV.**

The bulletin board in the sheriff’s office is as cluttered as it’s ever been in his entire career. Polaroid photos, post-it notes, scribbled pieces of information, all held together by push pins and connected by strands of yarn taped in a tangled mess of lines. It’s a map, scrambled and confused and leading to the truth. A truth just out of sight.

He takes a sip from his coffee mug, sitting back lightly on the edge of his desk, eyes narrowed as he surveys the expanse of it all.

There’s a photo of Peter Hale in the center of the board, taken from the hospital records. A note with a giant question mark is pasted next to the picture. Several inches to the right, connected by a green string, there’s a mugshot of Derek Hale, glowering at the camera with fierce intensity. The notecard next to his picture has the words ‘primary suspect’ scratched off in red ink. Above both of these photos, Kate Argent’s autopsy picture is stapled in the upper right-hand corner.

The sheriff lifts a folder off his desk, flipping through the contents. The old case report on the Hale house fire, long since locked away and forgotten, now resurfaced. He scans the lines of the page, occasionally glancing up to examine the array of pictures, both victims and criminals.

The intercom buzzes, and he presses the button on the landline. “Suzanne?” he prompts.

The voice of the girl at the front desk comes in crackly over the speaker. “Sheriff, there’s a call for you on Line 2.”

He nods to himself, taking another sip of coffee. “Thank you, I’ve got it.” He presses the button and lifts the phone to his ear, eyes glued to the board, hand curled around the edges of the folder.

The pieces are all here. These people are all connected. He just needs to put everything together, just needs to see how it fits.

 

**V.**

Scott and Jackson show up pretty much at the same time, one right after the other. Stepping in through the front door and rubbing his palms together for heat, Scott notices Stiles already seated at the right-hand side of the wooden table, and he arches an eyebrow in bemusement.

“Early much?”

Stiles shrugs, and Scott sits down at Derek’s left-hand side. “Just a little bit.”

Jackson comes in next, shutting the door behind him with a loud snap. He shivers, grumbling under his breath. “It’s fucking freezing. Why’s the weather like this?”

Derek casts him a withering glance from his place at the head of the table. “It’s January.”

“It’s California,” Jackson shoots back, without missing a beat. He sits at the opposite end of the table, leaning back in his chair with a grunt.

Derek sets aside the folder in front of him, ignores the complaints. “Where’s Lydia?” he asks sharply, eyes narrowing.

“She offered to pick up the food this time,” Scott chimes in, rubbing his face tiredly. He lifts his knees, wedging them in between his chair and the table, rocking back and forth. 

“So, late again,” Derek remarks coldly. He leans back, surveying the group. They all stare at him warily, shoulders tensed up, eyes nervous. Derek shrugs. “Screw it. Let’s just start without her.”

They settle down in their seats, scooting together around the table, all eyes on Derek.

“Nothing much to say,” Scott says after a while. “I’m getting better at controlling everything. I almost shifted a few times at school, but I was able to reel it back in. So that’s good, right?”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Jackson interrupts. “We need to talk about your house.” The group turns to stare at him. The tips of Jackson’s ears tinge pink, but he juts his chin out defiantly. “Uh, if that’s okay, I mean..."

“What about it?” Derek asks, hands clasped together and pressed against his lips. He stares at Jackson over his knuckles, eyes focused and unblinking. Jackson fidgets uncomfortably under the gaze.

“Well...” He gestures vaguely, eyes darting around the room. “Well, _look_ at it, dude. This needs some Extreme Home Makeover shit, like, pronto.”

Derek bites back a growl, and Stiles nods agreeably. “He’s right, Derek. Every time I’m here, I feel like we’re in a Batman villain lair, or something.” Derek _does_ growl at that, and Stiles winces, cowering away. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that...”

“Yeah, well there is,” Jackson says rudely, folding his arms. He’s not fooling any of them, and the irregular pattern of his heartbeat betrays just how nervous he is, but nevertheless, he seems determined to get this all out in the open. “You’re planning on staying here long-term, right? I hate to break it to you, but _this_...” - he waves around again - “...isn’t going to cut it.”

“What business is it of yours?” Derek snarls, hands coming down hard on the table, fingers digging into his palms. “How does it affect you?”

Jackson stares down at his lap. Scott and Stiles exchange a look.

“Well, we come here every week,” Scott says slowly, tentatively, picking at his fingernails. “And you’ve said that you’d eventually like us to start coming more often that that. So...it _kind of_ affects us...a little bit.”

“What he means is,” Stiles pipes up, “you’re wanting us to all start getting along better, start trusting each other. And that’s sort of hard to do _already_ , without the extra creepy factor of meeting in this....” He trails off.

“Shit hole,” Jackson finishes helpfully.

Derek cows him with a swift glare. “That’s all?” he asks gruffly. “We don’t _have_ to hold the meetings here. We can always go to one of your houses.”

Stiles’ eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. “Umm, yeah. No way. No. Not happening. Ever. Not even on the table, dude. Seriously, no.”

“I’m going to go ahead and put in a big ‘no’ for my place, too,” Jackson mutters, cupping his hands behind his head, mouth drawing into a thin line.

They all tense up at a knock on the door, relaxing when Lydia steps in, pizza boxes in hand. “There was a line,” she offers in explanation, plopping down heavily in the chair between Scott and Jackson. The boys lean in closer, hunger evident in their expressions.

“Did you remember to get pepperoni?” Jackson asks, pulling the top box closer to him.

Lydia starts to reply, but Derek cuts in, “There was a line? At the pizza parlor?” His expression is blank, quietly skeptical.

“Yes,” Lydia says shortly, turning to face him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Scott glances between the two of them, surreptitiously sliding his chair back and out of the way. Jackson pauses in the middle of opening the box, eyes lifting to exchange a nervous glance with Stiles before turning to gauge Derek’s reaction.

Derek cocks his head to the side. “People generally order,” he deadpans, “so the food tends to be ready when they arrive to pick it up.”

Lydia bites down on her lower lip, possibly restraining herself from spitting out a snarky comeback. She reaches into her purse, fishing around for her cell phone. She holds it up, tapping on the top of the screen. “No bars,” she says with forced calmness. “I had to order when I got there.”

Stiles taps his foot underneath the table. He swallows. “So we were saying...” he tries.

He gives Jackson a pointed look. Jackson shakes himself off. “Oh. Right. Umm, the house?”

Derek tears his gaze away from Lydia. “The house is fine the way it is. End of discussion.”

Jackson makes a quiet, frustrated sound. Scott pipes up, “Look, I think we all understand why you’re so resistant to changing the place. What with the memory of your family and-” He cuts off, voice dying in his throat at Derek’s murderous expression.

“It goes back to what you and I were talking about earlier,” Stiles says hastily, acting on impulse and reaching out to lightly grip Derek’s wrist. He jerks away quickly when Derek looks at his hand as though it’s a virus. “About appearances, remember? Like Jackson said, you’re going to be living here for a while. Like, for the foreseeable future. So it’s probably a bad idea to revel in the creepiness. Most of the town already thinks you’re a psychopath.”

Jackson bobs his head. “Come on,” he says, trying for coaxing but coming across more whiny. “I could totally get my dad to shell out some cash to help pay for the repairs and shit.”

Derek frowns, leans back in his chair. He shakes his head. “I get that you’re trying to be helpful,” he says, softer than before, looking at each of them in turn. “I understand that. But even if I _was_ the kind of person to accept charity, you’re still not solving the problem of avoiding negative attention. People are already suspicious of me, but if you help pay for renovations, you’re not achieving much of anything other than drawing suspicion to yourselves. I’m sure it’s widely known amongst hunters that my family was made up of werewolves. If anyone comes to investigate, it’s better for all of us if you have as few traceable connections to me as possible.”

The group falls silent, not sure how to respond. The light in the window is fading, dipping down to cast long shadows through the panes as the sun recedes behind the horizon. The chorus of crickets begins to chirp just outside.

“Can you not afford to pay for it yourself?” Lydia asks quietly, staring fixedly at the table.

Derek scratches a line on the surface of the woodwork, fingernails digging a groove. “I’ve never had much use for money,” he replies. “I have the inheritance left behind after the fire, but I’m not going to blow what little I have left on home renovations.” He stops scratching, bringing his hand up to rub at his cheek. He sighs, breathing loudly through his nose. “I’m not saying it will never happen. But you need to let it drop for now. Let it be.” He surveys their expressions, eyes flashing dangerously at their obvious frustration. “And that _is_ an order.”

Everyone except Stiles ducks their heads in obedience. He just shrugs. “Okay. You’re the Alpha.”

Derek nods, sufficiently satisfied. “Scott,” he says, firmly changing the subject. “You’re right, you’ve been doing better about keeping a lid on the wolf. You’re finally getting the hang of it.”

Scott blinks, surprised by the compliment. He straightens in his chair, pulling the pizza box away from Jackson and opening the top. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“You should help Jackson,” Derek says absently, ignoring Jackson’s squawk of protest. “He still needs practice.”

Scott’s mouth twitches, unsuccessfully trying to hold back smug pleasure. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, carefully avoiding Jackson’s annoyed glare.

“Good.” Derek opens up his folder, scanning down the page to the circled time Stiles has marked near the bottom. “The next full moon is seven days from tomorrow. We’ll forgo next week’s meeting. You all need to be here by eight.” He looks up. “Whatever excuses you need to make for your parents, come up with them now, not later.” He holds up a hand, preemptively cutting off Stiles’ question. “And no, you can’t come with us.”

Stiles lip sticks out, pouting. “I swear I’ll stay out of the way,” he protests. “I just want to see what it is you guys _do_.”

“We run around and kill animals instead of people,” Jackson mumbles around a mouthful of pizza. “It’s not that exciting, Stilinski.”

Stiles scowls at him. “Dude, that sounds _awesome_.” He looks at Derek, silently pleading. “Come _on._ I just wanna see.”

“No,” Derek says firmly. “You’re a part of this pack in spirit, but the wolves don’t recognize that. If we caught your scent, we’d be just as likely to rip you to shreds as we would anyone else.” Stiles sits back, silently sulking. Derek turns his focus on Lydia, who still hasn’t looked up from the table. “Do you have anything to add to the discussion?”

“Nothing that I can think of,” she replies delicately, not raising her eyes.

Derek raps his knuckles on the table, toes curling in his shoes. He nods slowly. “Alright.” He closes the folder, straightening the pages. “Next item of business, then.”

 

**VI.**

It ends, frustratingly, as all of their meetings do; with a lingering feeling of unresolved tension and a distinct lack of anything significant accomplished.

Jackson hops right up when Derek dismisses the group, heading out the door without a word to anyone. They hear his car kick into gear less than a minute later, the brights of the headlamps blazing through the glass in the foyer as he spins around on the gravel drive, low rumble of the engine fading into the distance as he screeches away.

“Lydia,” Derek barks, halting her movements for the door. “Hang back a minute.” 

He hands the folder back to Stiles, nodding for him to go. Stiles gives him a lopsided grin. “Again, with the business meeting feel,” the boy mutters lowly. Derek glares, and Stiles skitters away, chuckling nervously. “We’ll work on it,” he mouths soundless, flashing a double thumbs up. He follows Scott down the steps of the front porch. “Scott, wait up!”

The door closes behind them, leaving Derek and Lydia alone in the empty space. They stand several feet apart, matching blank expressions and rigid posture. Derek waits for the sound of the boys’ cars pulling away down the road before speaking up.

“Whatever your problem is,” he says sharply, “you need to lay it out for me. Right now.”

Lydia’s jaw tics. She brushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Pardon?” she asks calmly.

Derek steadies his breathing, willing himself to be patient. “Your issue with me,” he says slowly. “Or with the pack. Or whatever is on your mind. You need to deal with it. Because your attitude isn’t helping. Things are strained enough as they are.”

Her eyes flash dangerously, and she looks like she’s right on the edge of a truly nasty retort. But instead, her shoulders slump and the light in her eyes dies down, and she just looks exhausted. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, noticeably less snippy. “Just a rough day. Rough few weeks, to be honest.”

Some of the tension drains out of Derek’s shoulders. He feels the knot in his back muscles loosening. “It’ll get easier,” he says honestly. “It won’t be difficult forever.”

She nods, and if her smile seems somewhat forced, Derek takes comfort in the fact that she’s smiling at all. “I know,” she replies. She lifts a hand in a parting wave, taking a step backwards towards the door. “See you next week?”

He nods curtly. “Or sooner, if you want.” He scratches the back of his head. “You can always come to me if you have questions or problems.”

Lydia pauses, expression inscrutable. She nods again, slowly, meaninglessly. “Okay.” She drops her hand to the doorknob, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

The door closes behind her, and Derek’s left alone in the dark house. Turning to the staircase, he begins the creaky ascent, hand gliding along the banister. A few minutes later, the soft crackle of vinyl fills the quiet, lonely space.

 

**VII.**

It’s cloudy tonight, dark shapes all pressed together in bumpy blankets hovering above the trees and rooftops of the suburban landscape. The boys’ cars sit parked together at an angle, right on the edge of the overlook surveying the town and the edge of the woods.

They’re sitting side by side on the hood of Stiles’ Jeep, bottles of beer in hand, beads of moisture wetting the skin of their palms. Even in the blackness, Scott’s nose is noticeably red from the cold. He draws his jacket up around his neck, shivering. He sniffs, lifting his bottle for another sip.

“Jackson’s right, it’s way too cold for California.”

Stiles leans lazily on the surface of the Jeep, spreading out, stretching. His thumb grazes up and down his bottle’s neck. “The hood’s warm,” he murmurs, eyelids fluttering sleepily. “Enjoy it.”

Scott snorts, grinning. He swallows back a mouthful of booze, glances down at the bottle to examine the label. “I seriously can’t believe your dad hasn’t noticed all of the missing beer from your fridge. My mom would figure it out in, like, seconds.”

“It’s simple,” Stiles replies, yawning widely, grunting as he pulls himself up into an upright position. He nudges Scott’s shoulder playfully. “My dad only goes for the hard liquor nowadays. He likes to keep beer in the fridge, but he never drinks it. He only ever drinks the good stuff.” Draining the remainder of his bottle, he drops it onto the grass, wiping his hand on his pants. “He’s sort of a blackout drunk, weirdly, so I guess when he sees the missing beer, he just assumes _that’s_ what he drank. Which works out perfectly for our purposes.”

“What a great son you are,” Scott remarks, still smiling. He hands his bottle to Stiles. “I really shouldn’t. One of us ought to be good to drive.”

“Mr. Responsible,” Stiles teases, but he takes the beer without protest.

Scott steps down off the hood, walking around to the bushes nearby to take a piss. “So that could have gone better, yeah?” he calls out over his shoulder.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, lowering the bottle away from his mouth. “What, the meeting?” He covers his mouth, letting out a little burp. “Yeah, it kinda sucked. Surprise, surprise. But it’ll get better. You wait and see. Give it some time.”

Scott rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, staring up at the sky. “Yeah, I guess so.” He finishes up, zipping his pants and coming back around to stand near the hood of the car. He chews on his lower lip, thinking. “What do you think about Allison coming to the meetings?”

Stiles falls back on the hood, tossing the bottle next to the other one, liquid remnants sloshing around in the chamber, dripping out onto the cold grass. “Ugh...” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes, disoriented. “I’m a little buzzed, dude. You should probably drive me home. We can come back for the car after school.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott nudges his friend’s knee, leaning against the side of the vehicle, playing absently with the side view mirror. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Stiles hums in contentment. He cranes his neck, blinking at Scott owlishly. “I don’t really have an opinion, buddy. You know I like her. She’s welcome as far as I’m concerned.” He burps again, loudly this time. “But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

Scott breathes out through his nose, brow creasing as he watches a nightbird soar out from the canopy and over the blacktop of a nearby neighborhood, soft glow of the street lamps casting disfigured shadows on the pavement and sidewalks. “Yeah, I know.”

He raises his hands to his face, blowing into his palms and rubbing them together, expression contorted in silent contemplation.

 

**VIII.**

Allison jolts, startled by the rapping on the window. She relaxes, spotting the flash of flaming hair outside the glass.

“The door works just fine,” she remarks, opening up and gripping Lydia’s hand to pull her into the room.

“Sorry, I know it’s late,” Lydia apologizes, shedding her jacket and dropping it by the closet door. She moves back over to the bed and sits down heavily on the edge, patting the space next to her for Allison to join. “I just didn’t feel like going home.”

Allison shrugs, closes the window. “I know the feeling.” She moves to sit beside her, hands folded in her lap.

The chill from the wind outside dissipates quickly in the force of the heater, low thrumming in the upper-right corner of the room strangely soothing in its constant cycle. Allison’s school clothes, laid out on the floor for the morning, look eerie and wrinkled in the moonlight glow. Like a weird, flat snake, stomped into textured mush on the carpet.

Lydia snorts, shaking her head. “How is this our lives,” she mutters rhetorically, more to herself than to Allison.

“Which part?” Allison quips. Lydia doesn’t answer, but her mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile. Allison continues, “How was the meeting?”

“Same as ever,” Lydia says nonchalantly. “A whole lot of gobbledygook.” She flops backwards on the bed, pushing down against the comforter and scooting up to rest her head on the pillows at the headboard. “I swear I’m going to go insane if I have to put up with this much longer.”

Allison sighs, lying down next to her. She folds her hands on her stomach, gazes up at the ceiling. The quiet sound of the heater kicks into high gear, raising in volume. She turns to look at Lydia, studies her brooding expression. “I’m sorry things are frustrating for you,” she says gently.

Lydia’s throat bobs. She sucks on her lower lip, gazing upward, not meeting Allison’s eye. “Jackson I can deal with,” she mumbles. “It’s awkward, and I haven’t forgiven him, but he knows where to find me if he wants to apologize. And he will. I know him.” She shifts, tucking one leg underneath the other, adjusting the pillow underneath her head. “Scott’s fine. Even Stiles isn’t as annoying as he used to be. It seems like he isn’t hitting on me as much. I don’t know. Maybe he’s outgrown his crush?”

Allison shrugs as best she can from her reclined position. “Maybe.” She tilts her head, brushing hair out of her face. “So, what...it’s Derek?” she asks, frowning. “He’s the problem?”

There’s a pause. Lydia smoothes out the wrinkles in her pants with her palms, soft, circular motions. “I didn’t ask for this,” she says, and her voice carries a strange, stilted quality. Like she’s torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch a hole in the wall. Or both. Maybe neither. “There are things I want for my life.” She turns, looks at Allison directly, unblinkingly. “I’m scared,” she says, and it’s clear from the strained tone just how difficult it is for her to admit.

“Scared of what?” Allison asks, reaching over instinctively to take her hand.

Lydia closes her eyes, opens them again. She sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid I’m stuck here now. Because of the pack thing. Like, maybe I won’t be able to leave if I want to.” She bites her lip. “Like I don’t have any control over my future.”

Allison clucks her tongue, reaches up with her other hand to brush her friend’s hair back out of her eyes. “It won’t be like that,” she promises. “Derek’s a lot of things, and I don’t completely trust him, but I don’t think he’s a monster. He’ll let you go, when you’re ready. And if he won’t, we’ll deal with that when we get there.” She squeezes Lydia’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’re going to get to do all of the things you want for yourself.”

Lydia closes her eyes, burying her face in the curve of Allison’s neck. They lie like that together for some time, waiting silently for sleep, locked in sisterly embrace. 

The heater sputters out and dies in the middle of the night.

 

**IX.**

He can tell by the receptionist’s expression that the news isn’t good. It’s the look everyone in the department wears when they’re about to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.

“What is it, Suzanne?” he asks, cutting to the chase.

She gestures down the hall. “The county commission is shutting down the Hale arson investigation,” she says grimly. “Again.”

The sheriff stares. “You’re not serious.”

She shakes her head sympathetically. “Afraid so. Something about it being a ‘waste of manpower and valuable resources.’ Want me to get Daniels on the line?”

“Yes, right away. Thank you.” He steps around the counter and down the hall, ignoring the greeting of a passing officer. The red light is already blinking by the time he enters his office. “Hello?” he barks, trying to keep his temper in check as he lifts up the receiver. “Commissioner Daniels?”

“Sheriff,” the deep voice comes in over the reception, low and placating. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Sir,” he interrupts, massaging his temple with his forefingers, “you cannot cut off this investigation yet. This is the only major case on the books right now, and we have plenty of men at our disposal to-”

“It was a board decision,” Daniels interrupts. “The evidence was carefully reviewed, I assure you, and we all arrived at the conclusion that there isn’t sufficient proof of foul play to warrant further study.”

The sheriff sits down on the edge of the desk, jaw set tight, the phone cord coming up to wrap around his wrist. Suzanne pokes her head around the corner, holding up a mug. “Coffee?” she mouths silently. The sheriff nods, waving her away.

“Insufficient evidence? Forgive me, sir, but that just isn’t true. There is a very clear, distinct correlation between the Hale fire and Kate Argent. And-”

“We’re not denying Ms. Argent’s involvement in the arson, and you and your men will certainly receive commendations for wrapping up a presumed cold case.” A jittery breath comes in crackly over the line. “Our skepticism is geared more towards the other victims your department has associated with these events. The bus driver, for example.”

“We have strong reason to believe he was involved,” the sheriff cuts in, fist gripping the phone cord tightly.

Daniels sighs again. “Sheriff,” he says slowly, “these were animal attacks. The forensic evidence is absolutely clear on this. These were not murders, and we will not dedicate any more time or manpower towards solving nonexistent crimes. Thank you for your concern, and good day.”

The connection severs, leaving a dial tone ringing in the sheriff’s ear.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, silently seething. He slams the receiver back down. Suzanne enters the room cautiously, carrying the piping cup of coffee in one hand.

“Everything okay, boss?” she asks quietly, setting it down on the desk.

“Those bureaucratic whack-jobs,” he grits out, scratching his chin with nervous energy. “They’re just trying to keep the crime stats down for the annual report. Fucking unbelievable...”

Suzanne grimaces. “It can be a sick game,” she agrees quietly. She places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly before backing out the door. “I’m sorry.”

He waves dismissively. “Don’t be. It is what it is.”

She closes the door, leaving him alone. He turns to face the great bulletin board in the corner of the room. All of that time. All of that effort and investigation.

All for nothing.

 

**X.**

The whirring rotors of the wood chippers and circular saws blend together in a cacophony of sound, overpowered only by the sweet scent of bark and pine and oak, thick aroma permeating the lumber yard as Derek follows the foreman down the line.

“You clock in at the station,” the fat man shouts over the noise, waving at the red-roofed building down the way at the entrance by the fence. “Punch in your number and arrival time, punch out when you go on break. Punch in when you come back from break, punch out when you leave. Understood?”

“Understood,” Derek calls, adjusting his orange hardhat, squinting through the smudged goggles as particles of dust cloud up from the smokestack of the closest machine, blowing tiny chunks of debris into the pile behind.

“You always wear your helmet,” the foreman continues, waddling down the row to examine the assembly line where workers feed long logs into the saws, shaving them down into planks for distribution. “Whenever you’re on the yard, you wear your helmet and your goggles. No exceptions.”

He turns, raising an expectant eyebrow, and Derek nods agreeably. “Yes, sir.”

A loud, metronomic beeping sound cuts through the whirring, and Derek turns to see a gathering of men standing out of the way as a great blue truck backs up to the loading dock, doors in the back opening up for the next shipment. Off to the left, a crane begins to lift a collection of planks, moving them from one pile to another, splintered wood stacked high in array.

The foreman adjusts a lever on the conveyer belt and motions for Derek to follow as he continues on. “Follow the rules and don’t cheat with your time sheet, and you’ll do just fine here. It’s rough labor, but you look like a strong fella, and it’s pretty straightforward once you get into the rhythm of things.

They come down to the end of the row, mounting the rickety steps to the main office in the white building. Derek pauses at the door, squinting off to the left, surveying the canopy below down the slope of the ravine. Beacon Hills lies several miles north of the yard, just within his line of sight from the edge of the bluff.

“Come on, son,” the foreman prompts, holding the door open for him. “Let’s get you through the safety video, so we can get you started on the line.”

 

**XI.**

There’s a sort of stilted mustiness to the feel of the Argent household. Allison’s been aware of it for a long time now, and it’s only grown more pronounced since the family moved to Beacon Hills. In the wake of Kate’s death, the tension is practically suffocating.

As she enters the kitchen, coming around the bend with her backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, Allison’s eye can’t help but drift to the wooden chair where her aunt used to sit, gaze lingering over the empty space with a quiet detachment.

Her father looks up from the morning newspaper, noticing her out of the corner of his eye. He follows the path of her gaze, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly when he realizes what she’s looking at. “Sleep well?” he asks loudly.

She tears her eyes away from the chair, forcing a smile. “Yes, thank you.” She gestures over her shoulder at the front door. “I’m going to school now, okay?”

Her mother looks up from her breakfast, spoon clinking against the bowl as she sets it down. “Alright, sweetie. Have a good day.”

Her father nods, opening up the paper once more. “Come straight home afterwards,” he says.

Allison frowns, head tilting to the side. Her hand pauses on the frame of the kitchen door. “As opposed to...?” she asks slowly.

Her father looks up, expression blank. His eyes are cold, calm. There’s no mistaking his meaning. Allison’s mouth draws into a thin line. She nods jerkily, turning and padding off down the hall.

The front door clicks shut, and Chris adjusts his reading glass, squinting down at the paper. 

Victoria raps her fingernails on the table, thinking quietly. “You can’t keep her on lockdown. She’ll grow to resent you.”

He sniffs, reaching down to grab a slice of apple off his plate. “What would you have me do? I don’t want her running around with that boy without our supervision. Even if he doesn’t mean to harm her, something could go wrong, and we wouldn’t be there to stop it. That’s not a risk worth taking.”

She shrugs in response. “Then have them spend time together here, where we can keep an eye on them. Besides, they’ll still see each other at school. You’re not really putting a stop to anything.”

He sets the paper down, takes his glasses off. “I guess not,” he sighs, running a hand over his mouth. He peers over his fingers, staring at the empty chair.

Victoria glances at it, too, hand clenching into a fist under the table. “Have you spoken with Gerard?” she asks quietly.

Chris closes his eyes, rubs his temple. “Yes. Last night.” He blinks, looks at his wife. “I told him we killed the Alpha, and that all who were responsible for Kate’s death have been taken care of.” He leans back in his seat, brooding. “I think he believed me, but you never know with that man. Nothing’s certain.”

“This is an opportunity, Chris,” she replies, reaching across the table and gripping his hand. “This is a chance to give Allison a normal life. She doesn’t have to follow the same path we did.”

He snorts. “Having a werewolf for a boyfriend isn’t exactly going to help in that regard.”

Victoria sighs, squeezes his hand. “It will pass,” she says confidently. “I’m sure of it. You know how kids are - what they call love is fleeting. They’ll move on to new people, new experiences.”

Chris’ forehead creases, eyebrows knitting together. “Werewolves have been known to mate for life,” he says darkly. “Not always, but it happens.”

She releases his hand, leaning back and returning to her breakfast. “That’s why we keep an eye on them. So that doesn’t happen.” She smiles encouragingly. “Don’t fret, dear. She won’t be one of them.” Bringing her napkin up to her mouth, she glances once more at Kate’s unoccupied chair. “And she won’t be one of us.”

 

**XII.**

The afternoon brings storms, and the road runs wet with rainwater as thunderous clouds roll wide and dark in suspension above the earth. The windshield wipers work furiously in rhythm as Jackson drives down the deserted road, returning home. 

His backpack lies open in the backseat, books dangling from the flap without care. His sideburns are damp with sweat from his midday run. He rubs his eyes, squinting through the rain.

Mick Harvey’s voice wavers on the radio waves:

_Time don't fool me no more_

_I throw my watch to the floor, it's gone crazy_

_Time don't do it again, now I'm stressed and strained_

_Anger and pain in the subway train..._

The water floods down in the gutters, and the headlights of the Porsche cut like a knife through the gathering darkness, beaming down and illuminating the strip of yellow down the center of the road. Jackson hums along to the music, fingers curled around the steering wheel, thumbs rapping in tempo. 

It happens all in the span of a few seconds, though it feels much longer. It’s as though all the sound of the world disappears without warning, sucked away into some vacuum, leaving only the scattershot pitter-patter of the rain and the curiously distant thrumming of the radio. He hears a birdcall thrilling somewhere in the forest on the side of the road, and then the violent lights of another car’s headlamps cut through the pouring water, rounding the bend.

Jackson curses, slams on the breaks, and the Porsche skids to a screeching halt, back tires riding off the concrete and catching in the mud and grass. Heart hammering in his chest, he stares, wide-eyed, as the grey car comes swerving around turn, flipping over with a resonant shriek of rubber on blacktop.

It’s as though the thing happens in slow motion: staring out through the window, eyes narrowed as the wiper blades brush away the downpour, watching the sparks fly up from beneath the other cars tires as the wheels leave the ground and the vehicle turns on its head, hood smashing down onto the hard earth with a sickening groan of bending metal. The car flips again, careening of the bend, back tires swinging right in front of Jackson’s windshield as the entire vehicle tumbles down the slope, slamming into a great oak tree. The impact makes a loud cracking noise, and a flurry of sparrows take flight from the branches above, scattering in all directions, seeking shelter elsewhere. The cracking sound echoes, repeating on loop in Jackson’s mind.

And then the woods fall silent.

Jackson sits rigid in his seat, breathing heavily, hands shaking. The radio cuts out suddenly, replaced by static, and he reaches over to pull the gear shift into park, turning the car off.

Stepping out into the rain, his hair flattens against his scalp, soaked within seconds. Moving shakily, he climbs carefully down the slope, making his way to the wreckage. One of the headlamps is smashed out, bulb broken. The other still flickers in its shattered glass shell, a cyclops eyes at the head of the twisted mound of metal. The airborne wheels still spin on their axels.

Cupping a hand over his eyes, Jackson moves slowly around the side, stepping out of the growing puddle of leaking oil. He swallows thickly, a wave of nausea rising up. The windshield is completely caved in, a giant tree branch punctured through the driver’s side of the car. Copious amounts of crimson liquid are splattered up against the glass, all pooling together on the dashboard. The man in the seat - the car’s sole occupant - is barely even recognizable as a human being anymore, so mangled by the crash.

Jackson knows he should leave, should call the police, not disturb the scene. But even through the shower of blood and broken glass, he can see into the backseat of the car, and his breath catches in his chest. His feet freeze on the ground beneath him. He stares, jaw hanging open. “Fuck,” he breathes.

The rain hammers down on his head, violent patterns of various sized droplets.

Jackson swallows again, hands shaking at his side. And, after a moment’s hesitation, he steps forward, moving around the tree to open the back door and reach inside.

 

**XIII.**

Stiles steps in uninvited, knocking on the doorframe to announce his presence. “Derek?” he calls cautiously, swinging the door shut. “Hello?”

The werewolf pokes his head around from inside the kitchen, frowning. “Stiles.”

The boy jolts, startled. He smiles, waving awkwardly. “Uh, hi. Didn’t think you’d be in.” He looks around, gesturing pointlessly. “I forgot my hat the other day. Thought I’d come by and pick it up.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, moves into the foyer to join him, shoes clomping on the floorboards. He looms above Stiles, standing several feet away. “You came back for a hat?” he asks doubtfully. “You couldn’t have waited?”

Stiles blinks at him. “Well, I guess I could have, yeah. But...you know.” He shrugs. “I didn’t.”

They stare at each other for a minute, silence broken only by the whine of the grasshoppers out on the front lawn. Derek’s forehead creases. “I’ll go get it,” he says strangely, something odd in his tone. 

He turns and mounts the stairs, taking them two at a time. Stiles stands still in the foyer, one foot tucked behind the other, waiting. He looks to the left, peering into the living room. He frowns, surprised.

“You got a TV,” he says when Derek returns from upstairs. 

Derek moves to stand beside him, shoves the hat against his chest roughly. “Yeah,” he mutters.

They stand together beside the long wooden table, heads cocked slightly as they stare at the little black box set down on the floor in the corner of the room. “Do you even have cable?” Stiles queries, half-amused, half-bewildered.

Derek shakes his head, still staring at the blank screen. “No. Not yet.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know. I figured it would make the place more...to your liking.” He pauses. “The pack, I mean. All of you.” He turns to look at Stiles, frowns slightly. “You guys like TV, right?” he asks, uncharacteristically uncertain.

Stiles looks up at him, surprised by the question. “Oh. Umm...yeah, dude. For sure.” After a moment, “Good thinking.”

They turn back to look at it again, standing still in the quiet space.

The rain is coming down hard outside.

 

**XIV.**

Jackson sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor where the dead man’s suitcase lies open, on fully display.

One million dollars. He’s counted it three times. One million dollars in crisp green bills, dropped into his lap by a random act of circumstance, right out of the blue. Deus ex machina, indeed.

On top of the money lies a sawed-off shotgun, smooth grey barrel with a polished handle. A small box of loaded shells sits packed tightly in the bottom left corner.

Jackson rubs at the torn fabric of his shirt’s shoulder, fingers scraping at the tiny spot where the blood stained his clothes. Brow furrowed, hand scratching, eyes narrowed, he stares at the open case, breathing slowly beginning to return to normal rate.

There’s a grate under his bed. An air duct from the house’s old heating system, long since out of use. He fishes out a quarter from the zippered pouch in his wallet and sticks the edge of the coin into the grooves of the four screws, opening up the vent. Lying flat on his stomach, he deposits the clumps of cash into the dark space, fistfuls at a time. The bills rustle against his fingertips.

He closes the grate when he’s finished, screws it back into place. He lies on the bed, stripping off his shirt and tossing it into the empty case. 

The suitcase he can get rid of tomorrow. The gun, too, if need be.

He tucks his hands behind his head, gazes up at the ceiling with heavy eyes. Thinking.

He listens to the sound of the rain.

 

**XV.**

Suzanne pokes her head in through the office door, knocks twice. “I’m off for the night,” she says. “You working late again?”

The sheriff shakes his head, pulling out the last remaining push pin and sliding Peter Hale’s photograph into its proper folder in the cardboard box on the floor. “No, I’m just finishing up. About to head home.” He forces a smile. “See you bright and early, yeah?”

She smiles back, somewhat sadly. “Of course.” She bites her lip. “I’m sorry things went south with the case.”

He sighs, shoulders rising and falling in a jerky shrug. “What are you gonna do,” he jokes humorlessly.

She nods, waving goodbye and turning down the hall. “Say hi to your kid for me,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Will do.”

The whole front office is virtually empty now. Most of the lights have been turned off. The night receptionist is typing away at her computer, and the few on-duty officers are gathered together outside the front door, swapping stories during their smoke break, waiting for a call.

The sheriff grunts as he lifts the cardboard box and carries it down to the end of the hall. He pulls the keys off his belt-loop, unlocks the door the archive room. He flicks on the light switch.

It’s a depressing sight: a whole array of grey filing cabinets, organized alphabetically and packed tightly in a crowded room. Folders upon folders of unsolved cases. Boxes stacked together, left to gather dust. All things forgotten.

He makes a move to step inside. Hesitates.

Derek Hale’s photo is sticking out of the last folder in the box, staring up at him through lidded eyes. Staring intensely, as if gazing into his soul.

The sheriff swallows, hands gripping the side of the box. He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “Fuck this,” he mutters.

Five minutes later, and he’s sitting out in his police cruiser, turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the parking lot to drive home for the night.

The box is sitting in the back.

Jaw set, hands rough and callused on the steering wheel, he presses play on the CD player, breathes in the cold air and rolls down the windows. The Nashville Teens shout out into the night:

_I was born in a trunk._   
_Mama died and my daddy got drunk._   
_Left me here to die alone_   
_in the middle of Tobacco Road..._


	3. the cleansing

**I.**

The twilight hours have passed, and the moon shines bright and full, as if dangling in suspension on tenterhooks in a vast sea of velveteen darkness, casting its curiously neon glow down upon the the winter-chilled leaves of the Beacon Hills woods. Like a great orb in the sky, its divine light illuminates the branches and the brambles and the undergrowth. 

This feeling - it’s the same as it ever was, yet completely different from anything Derek’s ever experienced. Full moons have always been associated with bloodlust for him. They’re the time when whatever level of control he has over this thing inside him just disintegrates into nothingness, lets the beast out of its cage to roam free, with reckless abandon. 

But tonight, there’s a certain measure of sanity at the core of the madness, a connectivity that reminds him - not without a sharp pang in his heart - of years long ago when he would run through the trees with his own family. Maybe it’s the power of the Alpha, or the closeness of his pack. Regardless of the reason, he can _see_ tonight. His mind - his _human_ mind - is awake and aware, and even a little bit in control. 

Through the haze of red that clouds his vision, he can see every fiber of every leaf on every tree. Everything thrown into crystalline sharpness, the world looks to him like a fantasy land, open and wild and inviting exploration. His domain.

The sounds of the forest reverberate, and the noise seems to not only echo in his ears, but in the very essence of his being as well. Over the relentless chirping of the insects and the hooting of the nocturnal birds, he picks up the pattering of Scott’s feet slamming down hard on the dirt somewhere off to the right, seeking out a rabbit in a gathering of thorn bushes. Jackson quivers from behind, padding after Derek like a loyal dog as they follow the trail of a wounded deer’s scent. The intoxicating smell of living meat fills Derek’s nostrils, mixing with the rich aroma of moss and soil, and of the writhing bugs underneath the earth. He hears Jackson’s frantic whimper and knows that the boy has picked up the scent as well. 

Lydia is perched on a hilltop clearing in the middle of a circle of trees, head tilted back, throat exposed as her shining eyes gaze skyward, wide and fierce and open. The rippling tendons and muscles in her back shift between human and wolf-like appearance, and she lets out a resonant bellow, an animalistic howl that sends a flock of crows scattering from the branches of a nearby oak.

Derek watches, head hot with unreleased energy, all wolfed out and salivating and snarling under his breath. Jackson makes a move at his side, eager to chase the deer, and Derek growls at him, intimidates him into submission. The boy whimpers again, eyes flashing, rolling over and exposing his stomach, breathing hard with his back arched up against the ground. Derek places an unsheathed claw against his chest, pinning him to the ground, not cruelly, but firm enough to get the point across.

 _Not yet_ , the gesture communicates, and Jackson’s gargling protests die away as golden eyes lock together with red.

A rustling announces Scott’s return, and he emerges from the mist and the trees with blood smeared down his face and neck, tongue licking residue off his teeth, the stench of rabbit flesh evident in his every breath. Derek growls low in his chest, and Scott duck his head, slinking over to join them. 

Derek releases Jackson and howls up the path, beckoning Lydia from her hilltop perch. Her ears twitch involuntarily, and she bristles at the sound, snarl cut off into a begrudging purr. She leaps down from her rock and runs on all fours, fur breaking through the skin on the back of her hands, fingernails elongating into sharp razors as she tears up the dirt and grass to reach the group.

She skids to a halt at Scott’s side, and a commanding roar bubbles up from inside Derek’s chest. _Charge_ , it says. _Now_ , it says.

They move as one, all together with Derek at the head of the pack in full-out wolf form, teeth bared like daggers in the night. Derek’s vision whites out somewhere along the way, and when sanity returns, they’re panting together at the base of a rocky ridge, gathered around the dismembered body of their prey.

Jackson’s teeth rip into the deer’s flank with vicious glee, eyes darting up to meet Derek’s, soft whining noises coming from his mouth, begging for approval and validation. Scott crouches nearby in the shadows of the looming rock wall, the dull glow in his eyes pulsing gently. Lydia lies on her back, licking at the fluids dribbling down her arm. 

Derek - the wolf and the human, together - feels a sudden rush of elation, and he comes down somewhere in between his two forms, a manic smile breaking out on his face, teeth glistening with saliva and blood, body trembling with adrenaline.

The fog blows in with the wind, and snuffs out the light of the moon above.

And the world goes quiet as the sun begins its slow, steady rise.

 

**II.**

There’s an overturned log lying at the edge of the tree-line near Derek’s house, a toad sitting in the corner of the rotted-out stump where the cracked wood splays in all directions in tiny splinters. On top of the log, their clothes are all in line, folded together and waiting when they emerge from the woods at the end of their run. Shivering and naked, they avoid each other’s eyes as they begin to dress.

Derek catches Scott and Jackson sneaking quick, sly glances at Lydia, and he growls, teeth bared in warning. They duck their heads, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Lydia blinks, surprised, and she spares Derek a brief look of gratitude.

“I have never needed a toothbrush so badly in my life,” Jackson mutters, buttoning up his pants, bare chest breaking out in goosebumps from the cold.

“Tell me about it,” Scott says, spitting on the grass, sticking out his tongue in distaste.

“I had to steer you away from the town several times,” Derek says loudly, ignoring their complaints. “All of you.” He strings his belt through the loopholes of his jeans, brow furrowed in concentration. “Stiles was right. We need to find a new hunting ground. Further away.”

Scott flops down on the grass, fully dressed now, hair matted and damp with morning dew. He yawns sleepily. “Yeah, okay. Next time, right?”

Jackson clears his throat, prompting Derek to look up. He gestures towards the house. “Hey,” he whispers, keeping his voice low in a pointless endeavor to keep the interaction private. “Can we talk for a minute? Just the two of us?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, but nods in assent. “Go ahead, I’ll be up there soon.” Jackson turns and makes for the house, and Derek glances at Lydia, watching as she walks down the drive towards her car. “Are you okay?” he calls after her.

She looks back at him. Nods slowly. “Uh huh. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Derek shrugs, turns away. “See you at the next meeting. Don’t forget.”

Her keys turn in the ignition, and her car’s tires kick up a flurry of gravel as she pulls away, leaving Derek and Scott alone outside the house. Scott pushes down on his knees, grunting as he gets to his feet. “I should probably get going, too. Homework and stuff.”

“You know you can do homework here,” Derek says, coming across a lot harsher than he intended. “I mean, you all don’t have to rush off straight away every time we do this.”

Scott’s shoulders slacken, eyes softening with sympathy, and Derek has to literally bite down on his tongue to keep from growling at the implication of weakness. “I know,” Scott replies, probably thinking he’s being placating, kind. He sucks on his lower lip, thinking. “I’ll bring my backpack next time. How’s that sound?”

Derek just grunts, feigning indifference. “Whatever.” He turns his back, walking up the way to the porch.

“One other thing,” Scott calls after him. Derek pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Would it be okay if I brought Allison with me? You know, just when I’m studying or hanging...”

Derek’s eyes drop to the grass, staring at a glistening green blade as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. His forehead creases with wrinkles, mouth turned down in a slight frown. Turning away, he continues to march towards the house. “I’ll leave that up to you. Just don’t bring her to the pack meetings.”

Scott nods, even though Derek can’t see, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling as he’s left out by himself in the morning light.

 

**III.**

It’s all laid out in a long pile on the wooden table in the living room, fresh and green, and _definitely_ real. Derek can tell by the smell of the bills. He stares, wide-eyed, slumped back in his chair. Unbidden, a soft, disbelieving noise escapes from the back of his throat, and Jackson nods in grim agreement.

“What the fuck?” Derek mutters, picking up one of the cash rolls and flipping through it with his fingertips. “What the _fuck_...”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Jackson says, pacing up and down the length of the table, glancing between the money pile and Derek’s face, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

Derek sets the wad down, whistles lowly. He looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly. “A million?” he asks.

Jackson bobs his head. “Uh huh.”

Derek looks back at the pile. “You’re s-”

“Counted it three times, dude,” Jackson interrupts, although he doesn’t actually sound impatient. “I’m sure.”

Derek rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, breathes out through his nose. He peers through his fingers, staring down at the table. Dropping his hands to his lap, he shakes his head, bewildered. “Well, we can’t keep it, obviously.”

Jackson makes a quiet, frustrated sound, like he’s barely holding back a long-suffering groan. He sits down heavily in the seat at Derek’s left-hand side. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” he grumbles, jerking back reflexively when Derek fixes him with a reprimanding glare. “Why can’t we? It’s not like it belongs to anyone. Not anymore, at least.”

“You don’t have any idea where it came from,” Derek dismisses. “It could be drug money, or stolen from the bank, or worse.” He pushes the cash away, lip curling.

“It’s not marked,” Jackson says stubbornly. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, seeing Derek’s questioning stare. “I...uh. I gave a bill to a friend last week. Just to check.” He chuckles nervously. “And nobody’s door got busted down. No feds. So just...relax, okay?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point, Jackson. We are _werewolves_. Understand? We will _always_ live with the potential threat of hunters or other packs hanging over our head. Why the hell would we want to invite more danger?”

Jackson crosses his arms, juts his chin out. “Well...” His expression turns wary, hesitant. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “Yes?” he growls.

Jackson swallows nervously. “Uh, okay. Umm. So, I was thinking, maybe...money laundering?” 

Derek stares at him. Blinks. “What?”

Jackson raises his palms placatingly. “Just hear me out.” He leans back in his chair, wedging his knees up against the side of the table. “So, there’s this building out by the exit to the interstate - you know, beside the gas station with the broken sign? Really small place, just like three rooms or something. Well, my dad bought it a month or two ago, and he’s been looking for a silent partner to start up a business. I think he wants to do a copy shop, or something.”

“Ah.” Derek closes his eyes, understanding where this is headed. “Stop.”

Jackson shakes his head. “No, no. Let me finish.” He licks his lips, runs a hand through his hair, scratching at an itch. “You can’t tell me it’s a bad plan, right? It’s perfect. You put forth some of the money, tell him you want in. Say it’s your inheritance from the fire, or whatever. Like I said, you’d be a silent partner, so you wouldn’t have to actually _do_ anything. You’d basically just be an investor, and reap some of the rewards when the cash starts to flow.”

Derek sighs heavily, looks up at the ceiling. “And let me guess,” he deadpans, “we take take the dirty money and funnel it through?” He looks at Jackson, glaring. “Am I on the right track?”

Jackson’s mouth twists at the side in an apologetic smile. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well,” Derek mutters, standing up abruptly, dusting off his pants, “I have to say, I underestimated you.” He looks down at the kid, head cocked to the side, studying him. “This is more fucked up than I would have expected.”

Jackson makes an indignant noise, stifles it quickly. Standing as well, he looks up at Derek, eyes wide and earnest. “It’s not like we’d be hurting anyone,” he protests. “If it _is_ drug money or something, isn’t it better in our hands? And we’d still be putting it through a legitimate business. We’d only be doing the laundering to avoid suspicion.”

Derek folds his arms, mouth drawn into a thin line. A muscle in his jaw tics. “We don’t need the money in the first place, Jackson. What purpose would it serve?”

Jackson actually frowns at that, head tilting to the side like a confused puppy. “For the house,” he says, like it ought to be obvious. “To fix the place up.”

“Oh.” Derek’s annoyance fades, replaced by surprise. He shakes himself off, clearing his thoughts. “We already talked about that.”

“Derek...” Jackson looks down at the ground, head ducked either in submission or frustration. He sighs quietly, air whistling through his nose. “You want us to bond, right?” he mutters lowly. “All of us?” He shrugs, looking up to meet Derek’s gaze, half-fearful, half-determined. “This is the way to do that. Part of it, at least. I know it seems stupid, but we _need_ a less threatening environment.” He looks around at the decrepit structure. “I mean, seriously. You can’t really expect me to get all buddy-buddy with McCall in _this_ dump, can you?”

Derek bites back the urge to retort, instead examining the validity of the claim. He looks around, takes in the faded wallpaper, the rotted out woodwork of the floorboards and the walls, the torn curtains and cracked glass...

Eyebrows knitting together, he looks down at Jackson, nods slowly, grudgingly. “Alright.”

Jackson’s eyes widen. “R-really?” he stammers, startled. He huffs out a nervous little laugh. “That’s...that’s good. Cool.”

Derek points at the money on the table. “One condition,” he says forcefully, causing Jackson to flinch. “ _That_ stays between us. We don’t involve the others. You’ve dragged yourself into this mess, and it’s my duty as your Alpha to protect you, but the others don’t need to know. If something goes wrong, you and I will deal with it. Understood?”

“Umm, yes.” Jackson nods, swallows. He ruffles his hair, eyeing the pile of bills. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Derek hums softly, satisfied. “Okay then,” he mutters. “I know I’m going to regret this, but...alright. Talk to your father.”

Jackson grins, anxiousness replaced with his trademark cockiness. “Will do."

 

**IV.**

It’s not long after the morning light begins to shine through the cracks in the blinds that Stiles is roused from pleasant, dreamless sleep by a pair of hands gripping his shoulders and shaking him roughly.

“Guh? Wha-?” He rubs his eyes, squinting up at the dark form above his bed. “Come _on_ ,” he grumbles. “Are you, like, actually _allergic_ to doors? And what the hell, man? It’s too early...”

“It’s 10:00,” Derek replies, totally unsympathetic. 

Stiles jerks upright, eyes wide. “What?! Fuck, what happened to my alarm?!”

Derek sits down in the rolling chair by the desk, picking idly at a piece of paper poking off the edge. “I turned it off. Figured you could use an extra few hours.” He glances over, poker face firmly in place. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome?” Stiles repeats disbelievingly, tossing his sheets away, scrambling to stand. “I have school, you douchebag!”

Derek places a hand on Stiles’ chest, pushes him back down to the bed, ignoring the kid’s terrified squeak. “Not anymore,” he deadpans. Fishing around in his inside jacket pocket, he pulls out a folded blue catalogue. “We’re fixing the house. I need you to help me pick out paint colors.”

Lying flat on his back, Stiles stares up at him, blinking rapidly, like he’s not quite sure he’s really awake. “Um...is this for real right now?” he asks uncertainly. “Like, really? You broke into my bedroom to kidnap me so we can play Design Star together?”

“I don’t get that reference,” Derek says lightly. “But yes. More or less.”

Stiles’ mouth works silently, opening and closing like a fish. After a few seconds, he blurts out, “I thought you said no-go on the home renovation?”

Derek shrugs. “Circumstances are different now.”

“Since, what, last week?” Stiles is staring at him like he’s clinically insane. Derek ignores the look.

Standing, he reaches down and fists his hand in the front of Stiles’ shirt, pulls him to his feet. “Take a shower. Change. Do whatever you do in the morning, and get back in here. We have work to do.”

Stiles grabs a fresh t-shirt out of his chest of drawers, casting dirty looks over his shoulder and grumbling meaninglessly under his breath. “You know you’re _ill_ , right?” he asks loudly, tossing a towel over his shoulder and exiting down the hall to the bathroom. “I mean it. You are _not_ well.”

Derek sits back down in the chair, props his feet up on the bedspread, tucking his hands behind his head. He doesn’t reply, but the corners of his mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.

 

**V.**

Mr. Argent’s scowling visage greets him when the door swings open, and Scott can’t entirely repress the involuntary wince that comes with seeing the man’s face.

Every time he goes to Allison’s house, the sight of her father dredges up all of those unpleasant memories from formal night: the headlamps of the car blazing up in his vision, tires screeching against the concrete, jumping up and landing on the hood just before getting crushed. 

Standing here now, Mr. Argent’s face is a blank slate, eyes cold and mouth thin, betraying nothing of his internal monologue. But Scott can’t shake the eerie feeling that the man is thinking back over the exact same events.

“Scott,” his voice comes out, raspy and brittle. No tone at all.

Scott swallows, forcing a polite smile. “Hello, sir. Allison said she’d be here...”

Over Mr. Argent’s shoulder, he sees Allison poking her head over the banister, waving him up. “Hi, Scott.” Then, sharply, “Dad.”

Never taking his eyes off Scott’s, Mr. Argent steps aside, holding the door open for him, mouth turning up in a smile decided lacking in good nature. Scott steps by, keeping his head down, avoiding the eyes boring holes in the back of his neck. He joins Allison on the staircase, making his way up to her room.

“Keep the door open,” Mr. Argent calls, snapping the front door shut and walking around the corner to reenter the kitchen without another word.

Allison’s room smells clean, fresh, a light scent of peppermint permeating the air. Her laptop sits open on her desk, Chemistry book and pencil lying close by.

“So I noticed your dad still hates me,” Scott remarks drily, sitting down on the edge of the bed and opening up his backpack.

Allison gives him a look, dropping down heavily in her desk chair, nudging him playfully with the heel of her foot. “Did you really expect anything different?” she asks, yawning, clicking the mouse on her desk pad. The screen lights up, and she blinks blearily at it, eyes scanning down the online instructions. “But anyway, it’s not just you. Not today, I mean. He’s already in a mood.”

“Yeah?” Scott scoots closer, squinting at Allison’s notebook and scribbling down her notes on a blank sheet of paper. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. I think it’s about my grandfather, though. He’s thinking about coming down to investigate my aunt’s death, and my dad doesn’t want him to.”

Scott frowns, glances up at her. “Your grandpa?” He sucks on his lip, digesting that piece of information. “Is he...?”

“A hunter?” she prompts. “From what I can gather, yeah.” She grimaces. “And if my dad’s reaction is anything to judge by, he’s probably more like Kate than my parents, if you catch my drift.”

Scott sets his notebook down in his lap, running a hand through his thick, untamed hair. “Great,” he mutters. “ Just what we need.”

Allison smiles slightly, puts a comforting hand on his knee. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s not a sure thing, and even if he does show up, we’ll find a way to deal with it. Trust me, my parents want to avoid any more violence as much as we do.” Seeing Scott’s bemused expression, she huffs out a little chuckle and adds, “I’ve been eavesdropping on their late night conversations."

Scott grins, leaning in to press a soft, chaste kiss against her lips. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmurs.

She returns the kiss, hand coming up to brush his cheek. “I’m well aware,” she teases, leaning back with a smirk worthy of Jackson.

Scott’s phone buzzes, and he glances down to read the text message:

_Looks like we’re playing Extreme Home Makeover after all. Knocking down the wall tomorrow. Sledgehammer time, dude!_

He snorts, pocketing his cell. “Stiles,” he explains, seeing Allison’s curious look. “Which reminds me, I talked to Derek after the full moon, and he said he’s cool with you hanging around the house when I’m there.”

Allison’s face contorts, surprise mixed with doubt mixed with gratitude. Then, doubt coming front and center, “But not the meetings, right?”

Scott hesitates, takes her hand in his. “You’re still a hunter’s daughter,” he says slowly. He shrugs, mouth slanted ruefully. “Just give it some time. Derek has a rough exterior, but he’s actually a reasonable guy underneath it all. I’m sure he’ll learn to like you once he sees you’re not a threat.”

The computer screen flicks to black, attracting their attention. Allison glances down at her Chemistry book, then back up at Scott. She smiles, leans in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I appreciate it.”

When Mr. Argent knocks on the doorframe thirty minutes later to check up on them, they’re deeply focused on the schoolwork at hand, all discussion of werewolves and hunters and supernatural phenomena forgotten for the moment. 

Just a quiet little time of peace, set aside from the bullshit for the two of them to share.

 

 **VI.**  

The mirror in Sheriff Stilinski’s bathroom is plastered with small white squares. Polaroid photos and index cards, laid flat and taped up, connected with pieces of yarn. All of the evidence resurfaced, recreated and sprawled out for the naked eye.

He sits on the rim of the bathtub with a clipboard in his lap, drumming his fingernails against the metal fastener.

His gaze is drawn again and again to the picture of Peter Hale. The man’s blank stare seems deceptive, ersatz. There are secrets to be found behind those eyes. The sheriff is certain of this.

“Where are you?” he murmurs, teeth grinding together in consternation. He stands, pacing slowly up and down the length of the mirror, hand lazily grazing the counter on one pass. “You’re out there. Somewhere...”

Because he didn’t just disappear. The man has to be somewhere, after all.

 _Even if that somewhere is six feet under_ , the darker part of his mind supplies automatically. 

The sheriff chews on his lower lip, racking his brain for different possibilities. The nephew - Derek - knows something. No doubt about that. He’d been forthright in the interview, made it clear that he wasn’t responsible for the killings. But his responses regarding his uncle...

Those were more vague. And _that_ warrants further analysis.

A knocking on the door startles the sheriff out of his musings. “Yes?” he calls, pausing in his pacing. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s me,” Stiles’ muffled voice comes from the other side of the door. “I’m going out for a bit. Hanging out with Scott. Just letting you know.”

“Alright, kiddo. Have fun.”

There’s a brief pause. He can hear Stiles shuffling awkwardly outside in the room, can see the shadow of his feet move beneath the crack in the door. “You okay, Dad? You’ve been in there a while.”

He smiles fondly, even though Stiles can’t see. “I’m fine. I’ll see you tonight.” And as an afterthought, “Be safe, and don’t get into trouble.”

He hears Stiles moving away down the hall. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s have steak tonight. I’m going to be starving.”

The sheriff unscrews the cap on a bottle of water, scanning the rows of pictures on the mirror. He catches sight of his own face between two columns, can see the bags under his eyes. He’s been up for hours, could use some rest. But sleep can wait.

There’s work to be done.

 

**VII.**

Derek scowls. “No,” he says shortly, putting a definitive capper on the conversation.

Stiles sulks silently, putting the brightly colored wallpaper sample back in its place on the shelf. “It looks nice,” he mutters. “I thought the whole point of this was to make the place look better. You’re going to ruin it with your stupid emo theme.”

Derek shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, scanning the shelves silently. He gives Stiles a look. “It’s orange,” he says simply, like that’s a sufficient explanation. “Out of all of us, I probably care the least about this project, and I care even less about fashion and style. But we’re not doing orange. I’m putting my foot down there.”

“It’s funky,” Stiles says, stepping up on his tip-toes to examine a paint sample card on a high shelf. “And we’re the only ones who are going to see the damn thing. It’s not like you’re going to start throwing house parties anytime soon.”

The pungent smell of fresh paint is palpable in the air as they walk down the isle, surveying the endless rows of colored chips adorning the white racks. Derek’s nose wrinkles distastefully, and he coughs into his sleeve to fight back the urge to sneeze. “It looks terrible. Just pick something normal.”

Stiles sighs dramatically, shrugs. “Whatever. You’re the boss, dude.”

A customer service employee stands at the end of the isle, leaning up against a support beam with a bored expression, hands tucked in the pockets of her apron. Stiles walks over, awkwardly initiating a conversation by poking her in the shoulder.

He asks about home decorating and power tools, and about how best to knock down a wall without bringing down the whole structure.

Derek watches from a distance, posture rigid, scratching the back of his head. He observes the conversation, focusing in on the way Stiles uses animated gestures to try and convey his meaning. Watches the way the boy’s lips move when he talks.

And he’s not sure exactly what it is he’s feeling in this moment.

 

**VIII.**

Scott slings his backpack down near the legs of the long table, watching as a cloud of white dust blows out from the hallway and Jackson emerges, coughing up a storm.

“What the hell?” Scott asks, staring.

Jackson blinks particles out of his eyes, rubbing away the residue. The palms of his working gloves are coated with powder. He scowls. “About damn time, McCall. I was beginning to think no one else was coming. And your idiot friend is useless.”

Scott glances around, opening up the front pouch of his bag to pull out his own gloves. “Stiles is already here?” He pokes his head around the corner into the dark kitchen space. “Stiles! You here?”

“Coming up!” the muffled shout comes from downstairs. A pattering of footsteps up the creaky planks brings a shivering Stiles into the main room. “Fucking cold down there,” he says, rubbing his arms. Clapping Scott on the back in greeting, he sets a rolled up parchment down on the table, smoothing it out until it’s flat. “Blueprint of the house,” he explains, squinting at the page. “Got it from city hall.”

“What for?” Scott asks, glancing at Jackson questioningly. Jackson just rolls his eyes and turns back down the hallway.

“We’re gonna paint the basement,” Stiles says, sitting down. “You know, make it more like a rec room, less like a BDSM torture chamber.”

Scott snorts. “Makes sense.” Pulling his gloves on, he surveys the room once more. “Where’s Derek?”

“At work,” Jackson calls, short response followed by a loud bang and a cough. “He should be back any time now.”

Scott cracks his knuckles and joins Jackson in the back hallway to help knock down the extraneous wall. Lifting the extra sledgehammer, he grunts with exertion. “Are you going to help us?” he calls.

Stiles yawns, leaning on the table as he scribbles out notes to himself on a sticky pad, carefully examining the blueprint map. “Nah, I’m good. I think I’ll stick to the painting, thanks.”

“Ass,” Scott replies teasingly, stepping back as Jackson slams his hammer against the dented surface with surprising strength.

They somehow manage to break away the wooden panels and plaster molding without damaging the infrastructure or support beams. Sweat drips down their necks and white dust clings to their skin as the hammers work in turn, banging out a resonant vibration through the walls with every swing. All the while, Stiles sits in the foyer at the table, mapping out the plans for the downstairs room. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and beams in through the smudged windows, warming the floorboards and casting sharp rays of light through the holes in the tattered curtains.

It’s well into the afternoon when Derek finally shows up, tired and sweating and grouchy. Stepping through the front door, his head twitches irritably as Jackson kicks out a dangling panel with a loud crack.

“You’re still on the wall?” he mutters, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it on the ground beside Scott’s backpack.

Jackson gapes at him, bent over and panting, plain t-shirt practically soaking. “Are you kidding?” he snaps, then ducks his face at Derek’s warning glare.

“What he means is, it’s not a quick project,” Scott says, jumping to Jackson’s defense. “It’ll take a few weeks at least to get it all finished.”

Derek makes a noncommittal sound, glances at Stiles. He nods briefly in acknowledgement. “So you’re just sitting there?” he asks grumpily. “What’s _your_ contribution?” 

Stiles bats his eyelashes. “Being adorable and charming,” he shoots back sarcastically.

Derek opens his mouth to retort, but the front door clicks open, startling him. Allison and Lydia walk in with cans of paint, gloves strapped on and ready to go.

“They didn’t have the shade of blue you asked for, so we got the next best thing,” Lydia says, holding the can up so Derek can see. “That fine?”

He nods, rubbing his forehead. “Umm, sure. Yes. Okay.” He looks at Allison, raises an eyebrow.

She tenses up, chewing on her lower lip. “I brought some new windowpanes,” she says timidly. “Scott said you needed them. They’re out in the car...”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and Stiles pauses in his writing at the table, looking between Derek and Allison with a trace of unease in his expression. The sounds down the hallway cease as Scott and Jackson stop to watch.

Derek clears his throat, nods. “That’s great. Thank you.” He offers a small, hesitant smile. Quick and unforced. “The more help, the better.”

Allison relaxes, shoulders slumping with relief. She beams openly, setting her paint cans down and brushing her hands together. “Be right back,” she says cheerily, stepping back out onto the porch.

Stiles taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “So, the more the merrier?” he pipes up. “Meaning, you wouldn’t mind if I hired a couple of guys from the electric company to wire up the fridge and stuff? Maybe a plumber for the bathroom?”

“No strangers,” Derek replies, shaking his head adamantly. “No one I don’t know.”

“That’s what I thought,” Stiles sighs, mock-dejectedly. “You really are the most territorial _thing_ ever, you know that?”

Derek frowns, and Lydia coughs, waving her hand in front of her face as another cloud of dust blows in from the hall. “Jesus, guys. Do you have a fan blowing in there or something?”

Scott shrugs in response. Jackson doesn’t hear her.

The upstairs toilet, as it turns out, is completely shot. It won’t even flush. But the bathroom itself is actually mostly intact, surprisingly enough. All it needs is a new layering of wallpaper to conceal the blackened remains of the old pattern, as well as a thorough scrubbing of the grout between the tiles of the checkered floor.

“Ugh,” Allison mutters, gagging slightly as she wipes the grime out of the drain with a hot sponge. “Why didn’t we make the boys do this?”

“I’m a boy,” Stiles protests, struggling to clip the new shower curtain to the brass rod. “And I’m doing this, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You don’t count,” Lydia says, ripping off another square off the paper towel roll and discarding the used one in the trash bag by the door. She sprays window cleaner on the mirror, rubs it in vigorously. “You’re soft at heart.”

Allison bites her lip to smother her laughter as Stiles flails, scowling. “What does _that_ mean?” he squeaks indignantly. Allison reaches up from her spot at the head of the bathtub to pat his hand reassuringly. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” she says.

He looks down at her, eyes wide and accusing. “What, you agree with her?” 

Lydia’s mouth twitches with amusement. “You’re _sweet_ ,” she croons, blowing a ball of dust off her forearm. “Not like the others. Not like most guys, actually.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, great. The same line I’ve heard all my life. Is this the part where you tell me you think of me like a brother?”

Allison dunks the sponge in the bucket of hot water, squeezes it. “Don’t be down on yourself. Sweetness is a good quality. Sexy, even. Trust me, once you’re in college, you’ll have girls falling all over you.”

Lydia hums in agreement. “For sure. High school girls are so petty. Just you wait. Give everybody a little time to mature, and they’ll see how funny you are, and how kind. You have plenty of good qualities. And you _are_ cute.”

Stiles splutters, almost falling off his perch on the bathtub rim. Allison reaches up instinctively to help catch him. Stiles stares at Lydia, open-mouthed. “You think I’m cute?” he asks.

She whirls on him, brandishing the window cleaner threateningly. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Stilinski,” she says, although the humor behind the warning is impossible to miss. “We’re not going down that road again. I’ve made myself clear, haven’t I?”

Stiles raises his palms in surrender, turning back to the task at hand. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters sullenly, lip caught between his teeth as he fastens the clip of the final rung. Pausing, he adds, “Although, I have to wonder, if you’re so self-aware about high school shallowness, why were you with Jackson for so long?”

Allison pauses, glancing up at Stiles reproachfully. Lydia stares at her reflection in the mirror, a dark look passing over her face before making way for blank indifference. “It’s complicated,” she says stiffly.

“Okay.” Stiles stops working for a moment, takes a peek over his shoulder to gauge her reaction. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Lydia’s expression softens, and she resumes cleaning. “I should have said _he’s_ complicated,” she says quietly. “Jackson is a lot of things, and not all of them are good. But there’s more to him than meets the eye. Trust me on that.”

Stiles considers this, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration as he stoops down to help Allison scrub.

Downstairs in the main room, the boys are struggling to move the table out of the way and down the hall.

“Twist it,” Derek says impatiently, pantomiming the gesture. “No, to the _left_.”

“I _am_ twisting it!” Jackson snarls, feet slipping around in the dust gathered together on the floorboards.

“Can we just set it down for a second,” Scott groans, wincing as the edges dig into his palms, hissing slightly at the sting.

They drop it to the floor with a dull thud, coughing as they catch their breath.

“Holy shit,” Jackson pants, bopping his forehead gently against the table’s corner, leaving soft indents pressed into his skin by the grooves and ridges. “Of all the fucking tables in the world, you had to pick the elephant, didn’t you?”

Scott wipes sweat away from his brown, frowning. “I’m not in the mood,” he growls. Jackson shuts up.

“Just give it a second, and we’ll try it again,” Derek says, chest heaving up and down.

Scott puts his hands down on the table’s surface, steadies himself. “At least we got the wall down,” he mutters.

Jackson straightens, stretching out his arms. He nods. “Alright, I’m ready to go. Let’s get this out.”

Derek reaches out to grab the edges, then pauses. His eyes widen. “What?”

Jackson gestures at the table. “Let’s go. Let’s move it on out.”

Scott stares at him, jaw on the floor. “Out?” he says, voice unnaturally high, borderline hysterical. “Move it _out_?”

“Jesus...” Derek grits out, banging a fist against his forehead. Jackson blinks.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

“That...I - fucking...” Scott shakes his head disbelievingly. “I mean - unbelievable. I can’t even...” He throws up his hands helplessly, turns to leave for the kitchen. “Out...out!”

“What did I do?” Jackson shouts after him, staring as Derek moves around the side to follow Scott. “Come on, what did I do?”

 

**IX.**

They work until dark, right up until the sun settles behind the trees and their bones ache from exhaustion.

Allison is the first to leave, kisses Scott on the cheek and waves goodbye at the door, headlamps of her car blazing through the newly installed glass as she pulls away down the road.

Scott and Stiles finish layering the upstairs bathroom with paste, cutting the wallpaper sheeting in parallel strips, pressing it in place. Derek has to admit, if only grudgingly, that it actually looks pretty good.

“That’s it for today,” Scott says, tone leaving no room for argument. He yawns, sitting down heavily on the bottom step. It creaks beneath his weight and he looks up at Derek, eyebrows raised. “Next project, yeah?” he says, patting the stair.

“Shit,” Lydia mutters, gazing out the window. “Allison was my ride. I forgot.”

Stiles opens his mouth to make the offer, but Jackson beats him to the punch. “It’s fine, I’ll drive you.”

Lydia’s shoulders tense up, and there’s an uncomfortable pause as she turns to meet Jackson’s gaze. They seem to reach some sort of understanding, communicating wordlessly through cryptic expressions in the growing darkness of the foyer, and Lydia nods once, breathing out a quiet, “Okay.”

They depart together, side by side, framed in silhouette in the moonlight as they exit. Jackson pauses briefly to turn back, eyes glowing softly in the dark. “Derek, are we still good for...?”

Derek nods. “Yes,” he says succinctly. “See you then.”

The door closes, and Scott rises from his place on the bottom stair. “I’m gonna get going, too. School night, after all.” He ruffles Stiles’ hair as he passes, waves once to Derek. “Stiles, you want to hang somewhere.”

“Can’t,” Stiles replies. “We’ve got that stupid test tomorrow, and I promised Danny I’d help him cram. I’m late for that, actually...” 

Scott nods. “Alright, dude. See ya.”

The door swings open and shut once more, and Derek’s posture stiffens. He turns, looks at Stiles, faint glow of red blinking through the shadows. 

Stiles swallows, chuckles nervously. “Umm...is this the part where you rip my throat out for no reason?”

Derek huffs in annoyance “Contrary to what you appear to believe, I’m not _actually_ looking for opportunities to kill you at every second,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, well. You could have worded that better. And it would help if you’d put _those_ away,” Stiles says, pointing at Derek’s eyes.

Derek closes his eyes, ducks his head. He breathes in the aroma of the fresh powder on the ground, the unopened paint cans resting in stacks in the basement. The lingering scent of the pack, all together and separate in every way. And Stiles’ smell is stronger than the rest.

“It’s going to be strange,” he murmurs. “Having this place look...decent.”

Stiles blinks, surprised by the admission. But he doesn’t comment on it. “I know you don’t want to,” he says instead, “but we really should hire some people. To do the outside at least. The dangerous stuff, and the stuff we don’t know how to do. If you’re gonna do a job, you might as well do it right.”

Derek opens his eyes, looks through the darkness, sees Stiles’ twin orbs glinting in the faint light of the window. “I’ll think about it,” he says. And he means it.

He can’t quite see, but he thinks he sees Stiles smile. “Alright,” the boy says. “I’ll see you later then.” Stopping in the door, he adds, “You know, I thought you were going to be a real pain in the ass as an Alpha. But it turns out you’re actually pretty good at it.”

And then he’s gone.

 

**X.**

Chris is filling up the tank at the gas station on the way home from a nighttime patrol in the woods when he sees the prowler roll up the hill, down the street. 

The lights aren’t on and the sirens aren’t blaring, but he recognizes it immediately from the glint of the red and blue structure perched atop the vehicle. And he stiffens, wary, when he notices the sheriff’s logo on the side of the car as it nears the station.

The pump churns out gas in audible bursts, and his nostrils fill with the noxious fumes rising up from the nozzle. The price reader ticks further and further up. All the while, he watches the car draw closer.

It doesn’t turn into the station, and for a moment, he nearly relaxes. But then it pulls to a slow halt on the street just outside. Stops dead, engine rumbling ominously, and Chris forces himself not to stare at it directly, keeps his eye firmly on the gas meter. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the prowler’s window roll down. Sees the flash of the badge attached tightly to the man’s chest.

“Mr. Argent!”

He looks up, squints through the darkness. The sheriff’s face is cast in shadow, barely visible. The car’s engine continues to hum. Chris forces a friendly smile, waves. “Hey there, Sheriff. And please, call me Chris.”

The sheriff raps a finger lightly on the steering wheel, stares at him. Chris can’t tell if he’s smiling or not. “Will do. I hate to bother you so late, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming in for an interview. Just to help clear a few things up about...about your sister.”

Chris bites down hard on his tongue, keeps his expression neutral. “Oh?” he says tonelessly. “I was under the impression that the investigation had reached its conclusion.”

“Yeah, well.” The sheriff adjusts his posture in his seat, leans further back into the darkness of the car’s interior. “We just wanted to clarify a few things we’re confused about. That’s all. If you don’t mind, I mean?”

Chris shakes his head, spares the man a tight-lipped smile, oozing with politeness. “Of course not. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Actually,” the sheriff says, something off in his voice, “I think it’s better if we keep this chat informal. “I could come by your place, or we could meet somewhere in town. Give me a call at the station sometime tomorrow, and we’ll set up a meet, okay?”

Chris blinks, hand coming down to rest on the side of his car. He nods slowly. “That sounds fine,” he says, false grin firmly in place. “Goodnight, sir.”

“And you, too.”

The window rolls up and the cruiser pulls away, tires squelching in a muddy puddle. Chris’ smile falls away as he watches the vehicle go, raps his fingers against the side of the car. He ducks his head, eyebrows knitting together with worry.

The gas tank reaches full capacity and the pump shuts off with a cheery click.

 

**XI.**

They don’t speak for most of the drive home. Lydia flips through the radio stations, eventually settling on a mix of contemporary and classic, and Jackson keeps his eyes on the road, whistles softly along with the music.

The lights in the house are turned off when they pull up. The driveway is empty.

“Where are your parents?” Jackson asks, putting the car in park.

Lydia reaches around to grab her purse out of the backseat compartment. “Couples retreat,” she says lightly. “Which I suspect is code word for intensive marriage counseling.”

Jackson snorts, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He turns the car off, keeps his eyes on the dashboard.

They can hear the sound of crickets outside, see the gathering of tiny insects fluttering around the lantern light on the front porch. The world is largely quiet tonight.

Lydia unlocks her door. “Thanks for the ride,” she says, not meeting his eye.

Jackson wraps an arm around the back of her chair, finally lifts his head to look at her. “What’s the rush?” he asks, voice low, deliberate. Lydia swallows, taking her hand away from the door.

“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “Just don’t.”

Jackson shrugs, face a perfect picture of innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”

Lydia looks at him, glares. “You have never apologized,” she grits out. “Not once. You’ve never said you’re sorry.”

He lowers his eyes, hand curling around the headrest of her seat. “I know,” he says. He looks up, blinks. “But you know I am.” His eyes are wide, sincere. “I am.”

She bites her lip. Sighs. “Why is it so hard for you to say, then? Why can’t you just _say_ so?”

Jackson swallows thickly, eyelashes twitching. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” Short, succinct. But genuine, too. Honest.

Lydia rolls her eyes. She leans in, ignoring Jackson’s sharp gasp of surprise, plants a kiss against his cheek. Pulling back, she looks at him carefully, shakes her head. “Why do you have to go and make everything so difficult?”

He smiles ruefully, huffs out a little chuckle. “I really don’t know.”

She puts a hand on his cheek, pats it, half-tender, half-reprimanding. “Go home,” she says. “Get some sleep.”

The car door closes behind her, and the interior lights of the car shut off. Sitting in the dark, Jackson watches her disappear up the drive and into the house. Turning the key in the ignition, he turns the radio up loud.

 

**XII.**

“It’s good you’re going to be hanging around now,” Lydia says. Gingerly, she takes a sip from her coffee mug, leans up against the kitchen island. “I was afraid it was going to be a boy’s club forever.”

Allison smiles from the den, sprawled out on Lydia’s couch. “Well, we’ll see how things go. I don’t want to show up to everything straight away. Derek wouldn’t like that.”

“Screw him,” Lydia mutters.

Allison raises her head from its resting place on the couch pillows. “Still mad, huh?”

Lydia shrugs, moves to join her in the open room. She squints in the light, walks over to close the blinds. “Wouldn’t you be? I mean, I’ll get over it. There’s nothing I can do to change what I am now. But still...”

Allison makes a quiet noise of understanding. She gestures for Lydia to sit beside her, scoots her feet back to make room. “It’ll be fine,” she says, and Lydia smirks at her.

“Don’t be patronizing now.”

“I’m not!” Allison grins, prodding Lydia’s leg with her toe. “I’m serious.”

Lydia nudges her back, flips on the television. “Let’s change the subject,” she says, clicking through the different channels. “How are things with you and Scott?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “Ugh, not you, too.” At Lydia’s questioning look, she explains, “That’s what Stiles says to start a conversation. Even Jackson sometimes, and God knows _he_ couldn’t possibly care less.” She shifts on the couch, moves into a sitting position. “I dunno,” she shrugs. “I just feel like sometimes they think I don’t have anything to talk about other than Scott. That’s not the _only_ thing in my life, you know.” She elbows Lydia in the ribs, mouth turning up at the side in a playful smile. “And I definitely don’t want you to think that of me. How would you feel if I always asked about you and Jackson?”

“You _do_ ,” Lydia snarks, laying her head down on Allison’s shoulder. “But point taken.” She props her feet up on the coffee table, puts the remote down after settling on some old movie on AMC. “Besides, that’s totally different. There’s nothing between me and Jackson.”

“Yeah,” Allison says, decidedly skeptical.

Lydia frowns. “Yes. Not at the moment.” She yawns, closes her eyes. “He did apologize, though. So that’s a start.”

The images on the screen flicker, and the girls’ conversation dies down as the film switches to commercial break. 

“I think Jamie Lee Curtis is in every yogurt commercial,” Allison murmurs.

Lydia nods sagely. “It’s a guarantee. If you are a woman who eats yogurt, she’ll show up at your house to talk about her bowel movements.”

 

**XIII.**

It’s a three room building, lit by dull fluorescent lights hanging down in swinging bars from hooks on the black tile ceiling. The main room is the widest, rectangular shaped with large, open windows at the front by the double doors. The back room is smaller, squarer, and it leads off to a one-stall bathroom.

“The side room is behind this wall,” Mr. Whittemore calls, slapping the plaster with a resounding thwack. “Really weird design, I know, but we can always knock down part of the wall if we want to install a door.”

“If so, we’re hiring people for that,” Jackson says, poking his head out from the back room. “I’m not knocking down another wall.”

Derek’s mouth twitches in amusement at Mr. Whittemore’s confused expression. “I’m going through some home renovations right now,” he explains, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “Your son was kind enough to assist me.”

“Was he?” The man looks over to Jackson, surprised. “Well good for you, kid.” To Derek, he adds, “Don’t know how you did it. I’ve spent years trying to install a work ethic in him, and it didn’t make a damn impression.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Derek murmurs, watching Jackson sweeping up a pile of dust through the arch of the doorway. “I guess he decided to grow up.”

Mr. Whittemore chuckles. “I suppose so.” He dusts off his blazer, looks around the room. “Jackson! Get in here.”

Jackson drops his broom, steps in through the door. He nods at Derek, gestures around. “Well? What do you think? Will it do?”

Derek makes a noncommittal sound. “I’m just the silent partner,” he says. “Does my opinion really matter?”

Mr. Whittemore looks amused. “Of course it does, son. You’re making a big investment here. You should have a say in the formation of the business.”

Not missing the way Jackson’s eyes flash at his father’s use of the word ‘son,’ Derek spares the kid a brief glance of apology. “I think it’s good,” he says, clearing his throat. “Nice space, mostly clean. Decent location.” He bobs his head, turning around in a circle to take it all in. “I say go for it.”

Mr. Whittemore claps him on the shoulder. “Terrific! I’ll go get the papers, and we’ll put our names down, make it all official. Just give me a sec, they’re in my car...”

He hurries off through the front doors, leaving Derek and Jackson alone in the main room.

The light from the open window beams in, illuminating the left half of Jackson’s face. He watches Derek carefully. “So,” he prompts, “you really do like it? You think it’s good?”

Derek looks at him closely. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Jackson looks away, and Derek picks up an acrid tinge in the boy’s scent. A slight bitterness, maybe. Or disappointment. Derek swallows, pushes past his instinct to guard his emotions and places a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “It’s good,” he amends. “Very good. You did a great job.”

“Thanks.” Jackson nods, still not looking at him. But the dejected slump of his shoulders seems to lift, and he seems a bit cheerier after that.

The doors bang open, and Mr. Whittemore walks back in, black folder in hand. “Let’s make some money, boys,” he says, mouth stretched wide in a Cheshire-cat grin.

 

**XIV.**

Somehow, the job moves along smoothly as the days go by. Derek relents on the subject of the workers, and he comes home most afternoons to find a handful of strangers on his roof, layering the new structure with sturdy grey shingles. And, more often than not, the men are in the middle of some sort of shouting match with Stiles.

“They’re not straight,” the boy yells from the grass, hands cupped around his mouth as he squints up into the sky. “I can see from down here! They’re crooked!”

“Shut the fuck up, kid!” the head worker snarls, glaring over the edge, hammer gripped tightly in his gloved hand. “Leave the job to the professionals, alright?”

Stiles scowls. “I will! As soon as they show up!”

Derek bites back a laugh, places his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s fine,” he mutters in his ear. “It looks better than it did.” He waves to the man on the roof. “It’s fine, fellas! Keep going!”

The upstairs bathroom is the first room to be finished; a quaint little oasis in the middle of a burned-out shell. Even though the wallpaper is new, the tiling redone, and even the smell different, Derek can’t help but do a double-take sometimes in the mornings when he steps in to look at his reflection in the mirror. The room is so eerily perfect in comparison to the rest of the house, it’s actually very disconcerting. It reminds him of the way it used to be. 

It almost feels like home.

“Just imagine how awesome this is gonna be when you get running water going,” Scott says excitedly, tapping on the brand new shower nozzle.

“I know,” Jackson says, admiring their work. “I might even sneak over here just to take showers.”

Derek frowns. “No you won’t,” he growls.

Stiles wants to get to work on the basement as soon as possible, but Derek insists on fixing the foyer before anything else. 

“What’s the rush?” Lydia asks.

“It’s the first thing you see when you walk inside,” Derek says. “I want to be able to come home and look at something that doesn’t remind me of death.”

There’s an awkward silence after that. A lot of pointed staring at the ground and uncomfortable coughing. “Mood killer,” Jackson mutters under his breath.

At the end of the week when the workers finish with the outside structure, the pack gets started on fixing the main room.

“Finally,” Allison says, cracking the lid of the forest green paint can. “The fun part.”

It’s a weird sight to come home to, Derek thinks. Weirder even than the upstairs bathroom. Opening the door to see the floors covered up with splayed-out newspapers, watching the boys up on ladders with paintbrushes, the girls down below with rollers at the bottom wall...

The image is practically domestic. And as soon as the strangeness fades away, Derek is startled by the blossoming of warmth inside his chest. It’s happiness. And he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that.

Stiles hops down from the ladder, specks of paint smattered across his face. He grins broadly, waving his paintbrush in greeting. “Hey, Derek!”

Jackson pokes his head in from the kitchen, face also smeared with paint. “Hey, dude.”

Derek shakes his head, closing the front door. “Are you getting any of it on the walls?” he asks, gesturing at his cheek. Stiles rubs his face sheepishly. “The girls seem to be doing it right.”

“That’s because we’re not Neanderthals,” Allison says delicately, smiling pointedly at Scott and his efforts to brush dried painted out of his hair.

Stiles moves into the living room, turns on the radio and flips to the classics station. Jackson frowns, makes an annoyed sound. “Switch it,” he says. “Play something else.”

Derek notes Stiles’ brief look of disappointment and, acting on instinct, says, “No. Leave it. I like The Who.” 

Jackson gives him a disbelieving look, but doesn’t put up any protest. Stiles beams, returning to the foyer. Derek bites down on his lip to hide his smile, bends down to pick up a paintbrush. And then joins the pack to help make this place new again.

The radio plays:

_I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth_

_The north side of my town faced east, and the east was facing south_

_And now you dare to look me in the eye_

_Those crocodile tears are what you cry_

_It's a genuine problem, you won't try_

_To work it out at all you just pass it by, pass it by..._


	4. knockers

**I.**

Twin cones of light from the car’s headlamps cut wide paths through the early morning mist, and in the beam of the rays, the swirling moisture and gentle rain can be seen blowing up into the air and coming down soft on the ground, slicking the concrete as the wet tires squeal and the engine revs. The pavement is drier up ahead in the horseshoe curve of the neighborhood’s back road, and the car leaves damp trails on the blacktop as it swings around the bend.

Spring isn’t quite here yet, but the unusual coldness of the past couple of months has been dissipating as of late. Even on the cloudiest of days, there is no longer a need for long sleeves and jeans. The sun is hidden today, barely visible at all through the trees and thick haze hanging in the air. The blackbirds call out to one another from the rooftops and telephone wires up above, trilling voices echoing throughout the network of suburbia.

Scott yawns, mouth stretching wide, water pricking his eyes as he blinks, staring through the windshield. His fingers rap lightly on the steering wheel as he pulls to a halt outside the Whittemore house.

Jackson is there already, waiting on the curb with a sour expression, baseball cap crammed tightly over his head. He hops up as soon as the car comes to a stop, opens up the passenger’s side door and drops down heavily in the seat with a noisy grunt. He glances in the backseat. “Where’s Stilinski?”

“Derek said he wanted him for something else today,” Scott says, gripping the gear shift and making a quick u-turn. “So I guess it’s just you and me.”

“Hmm.” Jackson makes a discontented sound, leans his head back with a sigh. Scott feels a flare of irritation.

“Would it be any better if he were here?” he grits out. “It’s not as if you like either of us, anyway.”

Jackson gives him an appraising look, eyes flicking up and down. He turns away to stare out the window, and he doesn’t deny it. Opening up the glove compartment, he produces the folded-map from under the registration papers, smoothing it out on the dashboard. “Out here?” he asks, tapping a spot with his index finger.

Scott glances over, squints at the page. “Yeah, I think so.” He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, yawning again. “That’s what Derek said, anyway.”

Jackson hums quietly, examining the expanse of forested area, shaking out the wrinkles in the paper. “Wide space,” he says approvingly. “That’ll be good.”

“Far away, too,” Scott says. “Less risk of somebody stumbling across us while we’re...you know.”

Jackson folds the map up into a tight square, lets it drop on his lap. He pushes the seat back into recline, closing his eyes and letting the brim of his cap droop down over the front of his face. “Yeah, alright. Wake me when we get there.”

He rolls over to face the window, and Scott nods absently to himself. “Okay.”

The car makes the turn at the stop sign up ahead, speeding back down the wet path on the two-lane road leading along the perimeter of the woods. The clouds begin to part on the horizon, letting the sun shine through in all its glory.

 

**II.**

Stiles frowns at the murmuring of voices downstairs, thinking for a moment that it might just be his ears playing tricks on him. Poking his head out around the banister, however, he sees Danny in the kitchen with his father, talking at the counter and sharing a hot cup of coffee.

“...long shifts and mountains of paperwork,” his dad is saying. “But you get used to it after a while.”

“Yeah,” Danny says, smiling politely. He notices Stiles at the head of the stairs, nods in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, confused.

The sheriff looks over, gestures for Stiles to join them. “Hey, kiddo. I was just talking to your friend here. He says you’ve got a project to work on together.”

Descending the staircase slowly, Stiles glances at the clock on the wall, raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. In like, seven hours.” He looks at Danny. “Weren’t we meeting up this afternoon?”

“Something came up.” Danny shrugs lightly, Chemistry book and bright blue folder tucked underneath his arm. “I’m going to be busy later, so I thought we could finish this up earlier. If that’s okay with you?”

“It is,” the sheriff cuts in before Stiles can reply. He winks at his son, adjusts his holster at his side. “Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight.”

Stiles blinks, watches as his father disappears out of sight, jolts as the front door slams a second later. “Umm.” He glances around, flops his hand meaninglessly. “I guess...come upstairs?”

He turns without waiting for an answer, scratching the back of his head as he mounts the stairs. Danny plods after him, footsteps light on the steps, hand gripping the banister.

Stiles’ bedroom is a mess, and he kicks aside a pile of clothes, pushing the garments into a corner with his toe. He offers Danny an apologetic glance, bending down to retrieve his Chemistry textbook out from under the bed. Dusting it off, he opens to the bookmarked page. “Alright, I guess we-”

He cuts off with a squawk, startled as Danny’s hands jump out to twist in the front of his shirt, hauling him back and slamming him up against the door. The book drops to the ground.

“I want to know,” Danny says slowly, enunciating each word, “what the hell is going on. And you’re going to tell me. Okay?”

Stiles blinks, stares. Several months ago, he’d have been annoyed - even a little afraid - by such a display of aggression, but after having been wall-slammed by the best, he’s hardly even fazed. “You’re going to have to explain that a little better, Danny-boy."

Danny releases him, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t really seem angry, just confused. Frustrated. “You, and Scott and Jackson,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “And Derek Hale. What’s the deal?”

“Umm...” Stiles feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, tries not to let his surprise show on his face. Delicately, he places an open palm against Danny’s chest, pushes him away. “What, uh. What specifically are you asking about?”

Danny gives him a look - the one usually reserved for when he says something stupid in class or in the hallway at school. “I saw those wanted posters, Stiles. Back around Christmas, remember?” He arches an eyebrow. “So you lied about him being your cousin.”

Stiles makes a sort of half-shrug. “I...you...yeah. Okay. Still not hearing a question, dude.” He peels away from the door, slips around Danny to move to the bed. He plops down on the edge, stares up at the taller boy. “Sorry, I guess? I mean, you understand why I had to lie, right? He’s totally innocent, by the way. My dad cleared him and everything-”

“I don’t care about that,” Danny interrupts. “Jackson’s been strange ever since formal night. Before that, even. Lydia, too. I know that you all have been hanging out at Derek’s house.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip. Jesus, how obvious have they been? “Free country. We can hang out where we like, can’t we?”

Danny opens his mouth like he wants to say something, snaps it shut. He glares, tight-lipped, hands balled up at his sides. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Tell you what?” Stiles says, a little too quickly. He blinks, trying for the wide-eyed innocent look and failing miserably. Danny snorts and turns to open the door.

“I’m going to find out eventually. With or without you.”

He swings the door behind him, and it latches shut with a loud snap. Stiles can hear him descending the stairs, heels squeaking as they connect at the bottom with the kitchen tile. The front door slams shortly after.

Stiles pokes his head out the window. He waves his Chemistry book. “What about the lab work?” he calls, unable to resist.

 

**III.**

Chris sits in the armchair, legs spread apart, tight-laced shoes planted firmly on the carpet. He’s still, statuesque. His only movement is the light tapping of his forefinger against the rim of his coffee mug as the steam rises up in front of him, curling into his nostrils with every breath and billowing out in tiny wisps as he exhales. He watches as the sheriff situates himself on the couch across the glass table in the living room.

The sheriff opens the plain, tan folder, and an woman’s autopsy photo falls out from beneath a paper clip, sliding out onto the table’s surface. It’s Kate, eyes closed, skin purpling around the grisly wound stretched across her throat.

“Shit.” The sheriff winces, snatching the picture up hastily and cramming it underneath several papers in the folder. He flashes Chris a look of apology. “I’m sorry.”

Chris dips his head in acknowledgment, face a mask of politeness. His grip tightens on the mug for just a moment, then relaxes. “You said you wanted to clarify a few things,” he prompts.

“Yes, that’s right.” The sheriff leans back, couch springs squeaking under his weight. His poker face is equally unreadable: commanding but not aggressive, sympathetic but steely. Collected. “I’ve avoided bringing this up for some time, out of respect for your family’s loss...”

Chris raises his mug slightly. “Appreciated.”

The sheriff nods. “...however, it needs to be addressed.” He fishes around in the folder, lifting up the edges of the papers on top. He produces another photo, slides it across to Chris with one finger, expression neutral. 

Chris’ stomach churns. It’s the Hale house. Up in flames, smoke billowing up into the night and blocking out the light of the moon. His mouth draws into a thin line, and he raises his eyes to meet the sheriff’s. “The fire,” he says.

“As you know,” the sheriff says, tone delicate but not tentative, “we’ve amassed a great deal of evidence linking your sister to the arson.” He shifts, settling back into the cushions. “And, at this time, it is the official opinion of the Beacon Hills Police Department, and of the State of California, that she is responsible for the planning and commission of the crime.”

“Was,” Chris corrects, avoiding the subject. He sets his mug down on a nearby coaster. “Was responsible.”

The sheriff’s expression softens, but he doesn’t back down. “Was,” he agrees gently. He remains still, hands folded in his lap, quietly gauging Chris’ reaction.

Chris takes a deep, steadying breath, forcing himself to remain in control. “And you’re wondering whether or not I assisted her?” he guesses, eyebrow raised in challenge.

The sheriff’s mouth twitches at the side, almost as if he’s amused, just for a split second. He shakes his head. “Actually, I was wondering if you knew of any reason Kate might have had for targeting the Hale family. Any grudges, or connections that she could have wanted to cover up?” He leans forward, hands clasped together under his chin. His brow furrows in concentration. “Anything at all?”

There’s something behind his tone, an understated warning. As if he’s saying that he _knows_ Chris is somehow involved, and that he’s letting him know it without saying so directly. Chris stares at the table, pretending to think, unable to meet the sheriff’s stare without giving anything away. “Nothing comes to mind...” he murmurs, eyebrows knitting together. Snapping his fingers, he lifts his head, feigning a moment of revelation. “Although, now that I think of it...”

The sheriff sits back slightly, interested. “Yes?” he prompts.

Chris strokes his chin, nodding. “Yeah, there was a time - back then, of course - when I wondered...I suspected, I should say...” He folds his hands, rubbing the palms together. “I was under the impression that she may have had some sort of relationship going with the boy. Derek.”

The sheriff stops in the middle of flipping through some papers, eyes widening momentarily, as if that’s the last thing he expected. “Really?” he asks, thoughtful. He taps the hard line of the folder, thumb grazing the curved edge, flicking it up and down. He frowns. “Wouldn’t he have been...?”

“Underage, yes.” Chris nods, scratching his cheek. “I believe so.”

The sheriff grimaces, stares down at the papers in his hand. “Jesus.”

“She had a great many secrets, my sister,” Chris says. “And I wouldn’t defend her in every circumstance.” He shrugs. “I probably wouldn’t defend her in most circumstances, to be honest. But she was family, and that means something to me. You don’t throw that away based on suspicions. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“Mm-hmm.” The sheriff closes the folder sets it beside him on the couch. He crosses his arms, leaning back once more. “What is your own relationship with Hale like?” he asks. “Derek, I mean.”

Chris makes a gesture of indifference. “We don’t really interact. He tends to avoid me, and I him. Which, again, I’m sure you can understand, considering the history between our families.”

The sheriff hums again, nodding repetitively. “What about Peter Hale?” he asks abruptly. “Any idea as to his whereabouts?”

Blindsided by the question, Chris can’t quite contain his reaction, expression giving way to surprise. He squares it away a second later, but he doesn’t miss the tiny flash of triumph in the sheriff’s eyes. Silently cursing himself, he says, “Peter...the boy’s uncle? From the hospital?” He shakes his head, looking away towards the kitchen. “Uh, no. Sorry. I don’t think I can help you there.”

The sheriff nods, the beginnings of a smile turning up at the corners of his mouth. A secretive look. He rises suddenly, tucking the folder under his arm. “That’s perfectly fine,” he says, extending his hand. “Thanks for all your help.”

Chris stands with him, not bothering to hide his surprise this time. “Oh. That’s all you needed?”

“That’s all.” The sheriff shakes his hand, tips his hat in parting, makes for the door. “I’ll let you know if I have any more questions in the future, but for now, I think I’ve found everything I came for.”

The comment is pointed, dangerous, impossible to mistake in its implication. Chris fakes a warm smile, blood boiling just beneath the surface. His hand twitches ever so slightly as he waves goodbye. “Alright then. Thanks for stopping by, sir.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Argent.”

The door closes, and Chris lets the smile drop from his face, breathing out heavily through his nose. He lowers his gaze to the hardwood floor, fingers straying down the seam of his pants, wavering.

He hears the soft thumping of slippered feet on the stairs, and he turns to face his wife.

“You were listening?” he asks.

She nods, a single eyebrow arched high, mouth thin. Descending the staircase in her bathrobe, she moves into the living room to join him. They sit together on the couch, side by side. Chris can feel the warm spot beneath him where the sheriff had been sitting. He fidgets uncomfortably.

“We’re going to have to deal with this,” he mutters.

Victoria’s shoulders rise and slump, and she lets out a mild sigh. She reaches out and takes Chris’ mug from its place on the table, stealing a sip for herself. “We’re not going to have to do anything,” she says calmly, confident and commanding. Chris glances at her.

“He knows something’s up. He won’t just leave it at that. If this turns into a full-fledged investigation, things are going to get messy very quickly.” He pauses. “If my father hears a word of this-”

“He won’t,” Victoria interrupts, setting the mug down. She pats his knee, as a mother would do to comfort a worried child. “We won’t let that happen. And the sheriff won’t be an issue either. He can suspect whatever he wants. Hell, he can _know_ as much as he can discover. All of that is irrelevant without evidence.” She takes another deep breath, air whistling through her nose. She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. “The department isn’t going to want the mess,” she muses. “The county commission certainly won’t...” Her lips turn upward, eyes flashing. She smiles at her husband. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the sheriff is operating on his own speculations.” She pats his knee again, standing slowly, clutching her robe. “We have nothing to worry about, darling. He’s got nothing on us.”

Chris hums discontentedly. “I wouldn’t be so fast to write him off. He’s no fool, that much is obvious. And if he’s willing to sidestep legality to pursue this investigation, who knows how far he’ll go if he finds out the truth.”

Victoria pauses at the foot of the stairs, turns back. “Well,” she says coldly, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

 

**IV.**

 

Stiles steps inside, cringing at the loud banging emanating throughout the room. “Jesus, guys...”

Derek looks up from his place at the bottom of the stairs, hammer in hand. Perched further up along the way, Lydia and Allison ignore Stiles’ complaints, continuing to bang away. “Box of earplugs in the kitchen,” Derek calls, turning back to the task at hand. “Get over here and help.”

“This is what you wanted me for today?” Stiles shouts over the din, hands cradled protectively around his ears. “You already have the girls helping you! Why couldn’t I go with Scott and Jackson to scout out the new hunting grounds?”

“Because this isn’t what I need you for,” Derek replies easily, not bothering to look up. He wipes sweat away from his forehead. “We’re making a stop later in the day. In the meantime, you help with this.”

Grumbling, Stiles pads off to the kitchen, fishing a pair of squishy blue earplugs out of the plastic box on the counter. Returning, he fishes around in his pocket to pull out a shiny brass knocker with the words _Hale Residence_ emblazoned on the front. “For the front door,” he yells, catching Derek’s attention. “Got it custom made. Whaddya think?”

Derek frowns slightly, head cocked to the side like a confused dog. The hammer droops in his hand, bopping on the banister. “How much did that cost?” he asks, jolting as a nail flies by his head. He glares up the stares at Allison, who flashes him an apologetic smile.

Stiles scowls. “I didn’t make _you_ pay for it, douchebag. I just thought it would look nice.”

Derek looks it over, nods slowly. He turns back to the step beneath him, hammering the nail into place. “It does. Thank you.”

“There’s a hand scraper over on the table,” Lydia shouts down to Stiles, eyes comically magnified by her plastic goggles. “Come up here and help me peel away this paint.

Stiles obliges, hopping up the steps to squat beside her. She passes him a pair of goggles, and he sets the scraper down to strap them on. “We need to talk about Danny,” he says, looking over his shoulder to peer down the stairs at Derek.

Allison pauses in the middle of hammering, looks up at him. “What about him?” Derek keeps working.

“You know, Danny?” Stiles calls, still looking at Derek. “You remember him? My lab partner?”

“Yes, we all know him,” Lydia says impatiently. “What’s the problem?” Stiles waits for Derek to look up.

Derek gives him a pointed glare. “Yes,” he says. “I definitely remember.”

Stiles flushes scarlet, turning red and ducking his head away from Derek’s piercing eyes. He coughs into the sleeve of his shirt. Lydia frowns, glancing between the two of them.

Allison looks at Derek, expression quizzical. “Am I missing something here?”

Derek rolls his eyes, lifting up his hammer once more. Allison turns to Stiles. Lydia nudges him impatiently.

“Uh.” Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. “I may have pimped out Derek’s body to seduce Danny into helping hack an email.”

Lydia just stares, and Allison breaks out into nervous giggling, covering her mouth with her hand. “What?” Lydia deadpans.

“Nothing,” Derek says loudly, causing all three of them to jump. “It’s irrelevant.” He waves for them to continue. “Quit distracting them, Stiles. Get to work. We’ll talk about this later.”

Stiles pouts silently, squinting through the goggles and scraping at the old layer of paint on the baseboards of the banister. “Grouchy wolf, isn’t he?” he whispers to Lydia under his breath.

“I heard that.”

 

**V.**

 

When Jackson wakes, the car is slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road. The radio is cranking out the tunes:

_Over on the mountain_

_Thunder magic spoke,_

_"Let the people know my wisdom,_

_Fill the land with smoke.”_

Scott turns, seeing Jackson moving. He grins, waggles his eyebrow. “Give me the ringer, chop chop!”

Jackson blinks dumbly. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he pulls his seat into an upright position. “Uh, what?”

Scott’s smile fades. He gestures at the radio. “Come on! _The Big Lebowski_?” Jackson shrugs, staring at Scott like he’s an idiot. Scott sighs. “Ah, forget it.”

“Okay.” Jackson stretches, twisting the handle of the door and stepping out into the sunlight. The leaves are beginning to grow back on the branches of the oak trees lining the road. Bright greens and yellows coming back in full force. A gust of wind sweeps by, and the foliage rustles, swaying in the breeze. Goosebumps break out on Jackson’s skin, and he rubs up and down the length of his forearms, warming himself.

The trunk pops open with a click, and Scott moves around from the driver’s side to heft his backpack out of the compartment. He slings it over his shoulders, reaching into the side pocket to retrieve his pedometer. Clipping it to his belt, he looks up at Jackson, questioning. “Ready to go?”

Jackson nods indifferently. “Yep.”

They step together into the woods, hands shoved in their pockets, moving side by side. Jackson glances over to watch the numbers on the pedometer ticking up with every step they take.

This region of the forest is foreign to them, completely untouched by industrialization. It’s far enough from any town that no developers have yet bothered to seize the territory for renovation and building. The trees seem to grow taller out here, stretching high as the eye can see, branches spread out wide and tangled together in a twisted network of wood and leaves. The canopy shivers in the breeze, greenness intermingled with the golden patches of light peeking through the open spaces. The trunks are gnarled and thick, and look to be unfathomably old by the hardness of the lines and the heavy layer of bark dust that falls apart and scatters to dust in the afternoon wind.

It doesn’t take long to move far beyond eyeshot of the road, and Scott keeps close watch on his compass to ensure they’re headed in the right direction. Jackson squints up at the radiant blue sky as they pass through a clearing. A squirrel scampers by, running under their feet and darting into the bushes with a dark walnut clutched in its tiny paws.

“Beautiful,” Scott remarks, looking around with interest. And though Jackson would normally respond with a sarcastic comment, he reacts naturally, humming in agreement and surveying the landscape.

There’s no path out here, so they follow their instincts, allowing the wolves inside to guide them along the way. Moving deeper in, the plant life grows taller and closer together, treetops pressed tightly inward, trunks seeming to lean towards one another. The canopy becomes thicker, blocking out most of the natural sunlight, and the boys’ other senses become sharper as their eyesight strains. Ears twitching to catch wayward sounds, the distant babbling of a woodland river grows slowly louder, and the scent of water life permeates everything. Jackson closes his eyes, breathes in deep to bask in the smell.

“We could catch fish,” he observes. “We wouldn’t have to stick to rabbits and deer.”

Scott nods, looking down the slope to their left where a rock formation juts out from the earth, covered in moss and swarming with tiny insects and worms. He reaches up and brushes his bangs away from his face. “We could go for a swim after a full moon,” he murmurs.

Jackson smirks, stretches out his arms and legs. “We could go for a swim _now_ ,” he says.

Scott glances at him, looks over his mischievous expression. He snorts, mouth curling up at the side. “Maybe after,” he says, motioning ahead with the compass. “We should finish scouting everything out while there’s still daylight.”

“Mmph.” Jackson yawns exaggeratedly, jogs lightly up the nearby hill, leaning against the tree at the top. “Fun killer,” he calls.

Scott rolls his eyes, a light smile still on his face. “Am not,” he retorts.

He quickens his pace, stepping up the hill to join Jackson, pedometer beeping at his side with every stride.

 

**VI.**

The black Camaro is parked at the corner of the street, sitting in the shade of a tree looming out over the road from the sidewalk. Inside the car, Derek waits patiently in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel delicately. Stiles lounges in the seat beside him, staring out the window, bored.

“Can we at least listen to the radio?” he complains, looking over questioningly. “What are we even doing here?”

Derek waves him off. “Shh.”

Stiles slumps back, twiddling his thumbs and whistling to himself.

A stray cat leaps up onto a crooked mailbox at the far end of the street where the cul-de-sac rounds out. It hooks its paw behind its ear, scratching away, bending down to lick itself clean. The afternoon is wearing out, giving way to a second surge of cloud cover. It’s warm enough that the boys have the windows of the car rolled down, and Stiles’ elbow is sticking out, sunlight glaring down on his skin and reflecting off the side view mirror. As a single grey cloud rolls heavy above them, a jagged beam of golden sunshine blasts down on the blacktop in a thin line, riding up the street and splaying out over the front of the houses down the way.

A faint crash sounds out from inside the house down the block - the one Derek’s been watching this whole time. Stiles frowns, pausing in his fidgeting, and Derek’s ears perk up at the noise. 

“Watch,” he murmurs, nodding at the house, not taking his eyes off the front door.

Stiles obeys, leaning forward in his seat and squinting out through the windshield.

The front door swings open, and a boy about his age staggers out, arm flung up over his face as if warding off some attack. His hand is curled into a fist, rubbing at his eye, and he moves jerkily, arm dropping down to his side as he walks down the street in the direction of the car on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Stiles follows the kid’s movements with his eyes, pausing only to glance back at the door as a rough-faced man in a plaid shirt pokes his head out to yell something indiscernible at the boy before ducking back inside.

Derek makes a low noise of discontent, a quiet growl inside his chest. Stiles turns to look at him, wincing at the dark expression on the werewolf’s face. “What is it?”

“Do you know him?” Derek asks quietly, watching as the boy passes their location.

Stiles looks at the side window, eyes widening slightly. The kid doesn’t notice him staring, just keeps on walking, rubbing his black eye and gazing down at the ground. “Yeah,” Stiles says, subdued. He leans back into the car, looking down at his lap. “Yeah, Isaac...something.”

Derek nods. “Lahey.”

“That’s it,” Stiles mumbles, expression troubled. “He’s on our lacrosse team.” He bites his lip. “I didn’t know about this. I would have said something. To my dad, I mean.”

Derek shakes his head. “That’s not what this is about.” He reaches over to roll up the windows. Stiles drops his elbow down inside, hands clasping together in his lap. He looks up at Derek, confused.

“Then what _are_ we here for?”

Derek looks at him seriously, unblinking. “I want to recruit him.”

Stiles’ eyebrows knit together, head cocking to the side. “Recruit? What d-” He cuts off, eyes lighting up in understanding. His face contorts into an expression of outrage. “No! Absolutely not! I won’t let you.”

For a second, Derek’s too startled to reply. Then his eyes narrow. “You won’t _let_ me?” he growls, voice dangerously, deep redness flaring up around his pupils. “Don’t forget who’s Alpha here.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles snaps, turning around in his seat to face Derek squarely. “You’re not doing it.”

Derek slows his breathing, forces himself to keep his temper down. Hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, he fixes Stiles with a piercing glare. “And why, may I ask, are you so opposed to this?” His thumb brushes back and forth on the wheel. “Not that you have the final say,” he adds.

Stiles mouth twitches irritably. “Why the hell would you want to ‘recruit’ him? You promised the Argents you wouldn’t bite anyone else. I was _there_ , I heard you say it.”

“Do you really think they’re going to stick to their word?” Derek retorts. “It’s better to be safe then sorry. And even if they do stay out of our way, there’s no telling what sort of threat will come our way next. There’s strength in numbers, and I only have three Betas. That’s not enough.”

“You have me,” Stiles interjects. “And Allison. And even if you think we’re useless, what does it matter? You’re not building an _army_ , Derek. And this isn’t a game. These are _people_ , dude. Teenagers, at that. You can’t go around biting everybody!”

Derek makes an impatient noise, rubs his eyes frustratedly. “Not ‘everybody.’ Him,” he snarls. “He’s a good candidate for it. An abusive father, feels trapped in a life he can’t quite get out of, looking for something new. It fits perfectly.”

And then a sort of shadow crosses Stiles’ face, something that gives Derek pause. Maybe it’s the way the kid’s anger seems to _collapse_ in on itself, or the way he actually looks disappointed, possibly even hurt.

“That’s the sort of logic Peter would have used,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek can’t even bring himself to get mad. Because the boy’s right. 

Derek looks down at his lap, hands dropping away from the steering wheel. He lets the anger drain away from him, redness fading in the whites of his eyes, reverting to normal hue. “Hmm,” he grunts nonsensically.

Stiles’ expression softens, and he reaches out to tentatively pat Derek’s shoulder, jerking his hand away soon after. “He’s a kid,” he says placatingly, pleading. As if he’s begging for Derek to understand where he’s coming from. “We’re _all_ kids, really, but not all of us had a choice.” He glances in the rearview mirror, watching Isaac turn down the street in the direction of the local park. “Let me talk to him,” he says suddenly.

Derek looks up, surprised. His forehead creases, and he makes no special effort to conceal his doubt. “Talk to him?” he repeats. Stiles nods.

“Feel him out. See if it’s a good idea.” Seeing Derek’s skepticism, he continues, “It’s the only way you’re going to get me on board with this. Scott, too, by the way. He’s gonna be _pissed_ when he finds out you want to expand.” He looks at Derek seriously, wide-eyed and earnest. “Come on. You can’t just dive in and offer it to him when he’s at his weakest. He’ll say yes for all the wrong reasons."

“That may be true,” Derek admits grudgingly, “but what makes you think you can go about it differently?”

Stiles waves him off. “I’ll think of something.” He nods at the keys in the ignition. “Start the car.” Derek gives him a sharp look, and Stiles blanches. “Uh, sir. Bossman. Alpha. Buddy. Dude.”

 

**VII.**

Squinting down the line of the sighting, Allison releases a slow, quiet breath. Steadying her aim, she pulls back the hammer and lets the arrow fly loose from the crossbow. With a whistling swoosh, it thuds into the circular target nailed into the haystack. 

Dead center. Bullseye.

She reaches around behind her back, pulls another arrow out of the quiver. Standing tall in the yard behind her house, she waits for the cloud to pass, letting the sun beam down on the grass and the hay before letting another shot fly fast and hard, slamming directly to the left of the first one.

Her father is standing at the sink, watching from the window. She can see him in the periphery of her vision, taking his time as he cleans the dishes with a washcloth and sponge, watching her practice. She twists her neck around to look at him, flashes him a cheerful smile, waves. His mouth turns up affectionately, and he raises a hand to wave back.

She’s not sure why she still does this. Any chances her parents had of recruiting her into the family business died with Kate. She’s seen the way this clan chooses to do its business. That’s not her world.

And it isn’t simply her loyalty to Scott that keeps her at a distance from the life she was intended to live. She wants other things, wants a kinship with her friends and loved ones that extends beyond the mutual attraction to killing dangerous creatures straight out of nightmares. The curious sense of warmth she’s felt during her time working with Lydia and the guys on the Hale house has been infinitely more fulfilling than any of the bullshit her aunt tried to shove down her throat.

Still. She finds herself waking up in the middle of the night every so often, an itch prickling at the tips of her fingers. She dreams of running through the darkness of the woods, quiver strapped to her back, crossbow in hand. A werewolf hunter she is not, but the urge to hold this instrument bubbles up fast and strong at the most unexpected times.

She doesn’t much buy into the idea of fate, or destiny, or a ‘reason for everything.’ But there’s something calming about the feel of this weapon in her hands. Something coursing through her blood.

So she practices.

Turning away from her father’s watchful eye, she unsheathes another arrow, takes aim, and lets it fly.

The pointed tip slices down the shaft of the first arrow, splitting it in two. She lowers the crossbow, smiles.

 

**VIII.**

 

The twigs and leaves splay out in piles, and they crunch underneath Jackson’s feet as he removes his shoes at the water’s edge. Stepping down from the rocks to the riverbank, he peels off his shirt, casting it aside to drape over a nearby boulder. “It’s not bad,” he calls, poking his toe in the water and undoing his belt. “Don’t be a pussy.”

Scott frowns, squatting up further on the land, fishing around in his backpack for an energy bar. “I never said I wasn’t going to swim.”

Jackson shrugs, turns and drops his pants. “Whatever.”

He slides his boxer shorts down and throws them with the rest of his clothes. Scott splutters, startled. “Dude!” His nose crinkles, expression indignant. “Seriously?”

Jackson glances over his shoulder, patented smug grin firmly in place. “There’s nothing wrong with the unclothed body, McCall,” he drawls, wading into the shallow waves until the water comes up to his waist. “It’s not like you’re looking or anything.” He turns around, slipping deeper under the surface, right up to his neck. He waggles his eyebrows, expression sly. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me. I always wondered if you and Stilinski were homo for each other.”

Scott growls, jaw clenching tight. A muscle in his neck pulses. “I bet you don’t talk that way around Danny.”

Jackson swims further out, whistling to himself. “Danny’s got thick skin,” he calls. “Not everyone’s a prude like you.”

A flare of anger blossoms in Scott’s chest, an unexpected surge of threatened pride. He zips up the backpack’s front pouch, stands and kicks off his shoes. Jackson stops swimming, treading water several yards away from shore, watching as Scott starts stripping down. “You’re such a macho asshole, you know that?” Scott retorts, pulling his shorts down roughly. “We see each other naked every full moon, remember? And in the locker rooms at school. Does that ring a bell?” He throws his underwear beside the backpack, standing stark naked in broad daylight. He matches Jackson’s look of mild surprise with a challenging glare. “I don’t know what you think you’re proving, but I've got nothing to hide. Not everyone’s an insecure tool. Like you.”

For a second, Jackson looks as if he’s going to snap back, keep the argument going. Then his irritation slips away, replaced by a curious expression. Grudging respect, perhaps. He smiles, a chuckle bubbling up as he slips under the water to wet his hair. Resurfacing he jerks his head in a beckoning gesture. “Get in,” he calls.

Scott steps forward, wincing as the water comes up around his ankles, and takes the dive.

The water is cool, sun warm overhead. The reeds on the riverbank detach from their roots and float downstream, brushing against the boys’ bare skin. A family of ducks can be seen on the opposite bank, chicks’ wings fluttering as they splash one another in line, following their mother. Their noisy quacking echoes, reverberating against the wall of trees on both sides of the river. 

They swim for about an hour, never really talking, always staying at a distance. But there’s a silent sort of communication running between them as the minutes wear on, and as the sun begins to slip out of view and the water turns chilly, they find themselves meeting together by the boulders at the water’s edge. They lie side by side on the flat surface of a great grey rock, letting the air dry their bodies.

Jackson yawns, hands folded together on his chest, stomach rising up and down as he catches his breath. “How could you not want this?” he murmurs.

Scott frowns, not understanding. Then, lightbulb going off in his head, “What, the werewolf thing?” Jackson hums in affirmation. Scott stares up at the darkening sky, feels a bead of water trail down from his sideburns, dripping off his jawline. He makes a quiet, meaningless noise. “Not all of us want to be perfect,” he says, although he doesn’t pack much heat behind the quip. “Some of us just want to be okay.”

Jackson snorts, lets his eyelids droop, foot coming up to scratch his leg. “So, settling for mediocrity, you mean?”

“If you want to think of it that way,” Scott says, turning his head slightly, watching Jackson’s reaction. “I don’t think being human is mediocre.”

Jackson doesn’t respond to that. His mouth twitches slightly, head moving as if to shake off an irksome fly. “What’s so special about being human,” he mutters, and the way he says it doesn’t make it sound like a question. “This thing we have, what we’ve been _given_...it’s new. It’s a different way to live. We don’t have to wake up and fucking _know_ how our lives are going to turn out. What with school, and then a job, and then getting married and having fucking kids. And dying.” He tucks his hands behind his head, stretches out his legs with a soft grunt. “Now we don’t know.” His eyes flutter open, and he turns to face Scott. “Why wouldn’t you want that?”

Scott blinks, dumbfounded. “I guess that’s not how I saw it. How I see it.” He turns away, looks down the river where a log is sticking out from the depths, caught in the rapids at the bend. “I just want to be normal.” He scratches his head, hair still damp from their swim. “And what makes you think being a werewolf is going to make your future any less dead set? We’re going to have to worry about danger every day of our lives from here on out. We can never let our guards down, or else. Does that sound better to you?”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Scott starts to think Jackson isn’t going to reply. Then, “Yes. I think so.” Jackson turns, and in the twilight glow, his eyes flash gold, internal light illuminating his bare skin in the dark. He props his head up in his palm, elbow pressed against the rock. “Are you planning on leaving after you graduate?”

Scott raises his eyebrows, but accepts the sudden change of subject. He shrugs as best he can with his back flat against the hard surface. “I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.” He sighs. “Probably not. As much as I don’t like the idea of being stuck hanging out with Derek forever, I guess it could be worse. I mean, I’ve still got Allison. And Stiles. And Lydia’s not so bad.”

Jackson snorts, curls upward into a sitting position, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Thanks, I feel so included.”

“What do you care?” Scott sits as well, rising with a grunt. His shoulder brushes against Jackson’s, and they stare together as the last of the sun’s light vanishes behind the hills, silhouetted trees darkening into formless mass. “It’s not like you like me anyway.”

Jackson huffs. “Yeah, but still. You’re not as annoying as your friend. And it’s good to have another guy around, other than Derek.” He bends his neck down, pressing his forehead into his knees. “Honestly, you’re alright. Except when you’re talking about your girlfriend. Then you’re pretty insufferable.”

Scott snorts. “So, I’m insufferable all the time then?” he shoots back with a small smile, trying for a little self-deprecating humor. Jackson’s mouth twists into a smirk.

“I seriously don’t know why you’re trying so hard with her,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve got to know it’s not going to work out, right?”

Scott’s smile evaporates, replaced by annoyance. “I don’t really feel like talking about this with you.”

Jackson shrugs, tilting his head back to stare at the sky, watching the stars twinkle into focus. “Whatever. I mean, she’s hot and everything, but the whole parents wanting to kill you thing has to be a major boner killer-”

There’s no build-up to it, no warning sign at all. Scott’s wolf leaps to attention, rising to the surface and breaking free. He snarls, whipping around to grab Jackson by the throat, slamming him down hard on the rock. Twisting around, he straddles Jackson’s waist, pressing his knee into the other boy’s chest to keep him pinned. “Shut up!” he growls, fangs razor sharp and glistening, eyes glowing madly. “I don’t want to hear it!”

Jackson coughs, trying to pry Scott’s hand away, cringing as the claws come out to scrape the skin on the side of his neck. “Jesus, fuck! I’m sorry, alright? Let go!”

And Scott thinks to, wants to. The human part of his brain has calmed, anger dissipated, and he makes a move as if to release his hold. But then the wolf catches a curious scent, something new and foreign. Intoxicating. And driven by instinct, he leans forward, sniffing, pushing his nose into Jackson’s chest, running up his side to his armpit, further up still to his neck.

“Wh-?” Jackson chokes out, body stiffening. His breathing hitches. “What are you do- stop...”

Scott growls, silencing him. His tongue comes out, licking a trail up Jackson’s neck, along his jawline. Jackson shudders, and Scott feels him trembling.

“S-stop,” Jackson whimpers, stuttering. “Please stop...”

And Scott hears the fear in his voice, and the wolf subsides, backing down for the human to take control. Startled by his actions, he leaps away, standing up and backing off. “What the fuck...” he mutters, more to himself than to Jackson.

And Jackson just lies there for a moment, flat on his back, naked and shaking, staring vacantly into space, catching his breath. Scott thinks he sees unshed tears in his eyes. “I...” Jackson starts, then trails off.

Scott swallows thickly, running a hand through his hair, heart pounding. “Look...” he says carefully, “I’m really sorry. It was the wolf, not me. I don’t know what-”

But Jackson ignores him, standing up suddenly and turning away. He moves up the bank towards his clothes, snatching them up angrily and marching into the forest to change.

An owl’s hoot thrills in the distance. Scott ducks his head, grimaces. “Shit,” he mutters.

 

**IX.**

 

Stiles approaches from behind, plastic bag in hand.

Isaac is sitting on the park bench, alone in the dark with his face buried in his hands, listening quietly to the sounds of the wildlife, the chirping crickets and chattering rodents. The park is empty, apart from the two of them.

Stepping around the bench, Stiles clears his throat to announce his presence. Isaac looks up, and Stiles has to physically bite down on his tongue to stop himself from cringing at the nasty bruise purpling the area around the boy’s eye. Instead, he forces a light smile, holds up the bag in an offer of companionship.

“Want to split a sandwich?” he asks, trying for coaxing and probably coming across a little more creepy than intended.

Isaac stares at him, clearly bewildered. “I-” he starts, cutting off. He frowns, split lip still red down the middle from a sharp cut. “Stiles?” he says warily, slowly.

“Yep. You know, we play lacrosse together?” Stiles sits down beside him on the bench, pulls the wrapped up sandwich out of the bag. He holds he larger half over, waggling it near Isaac’s face. “Go on, take it. It’s...uh....” He blinks, glances down at the wrappings. “I...actually have no idea what kind of sandwich it is.” He shrugs. “To be honest, I only bought it as a conversation starter.”

Isaac takes the sandwich, unwraps it slowly. “Umm...thanks, I guess.”

“No problem.”

The wind from the afternoon has died down considerably, but the breeze is still strong enough to make the nearby swing-set creak as the chains sway back and forth, dangling down from the rusty bar. The playground is old, small, and Stiles can’t remember the last time he saw any parents bring their children here to play. In fact, his last vivid memory of the place in its prime is the time he skinned his knee coming down the slide and his mother tended to the wound, rubbing his shoulders and kissing his forehead. Just one of many images imprinted indelibly on the brain, never forgotten, always lingering.

“What do you want to happen?” Stiles pipes up suddenly, with no preamble. He surveys the empty playground, chewing thoughtfully. He sees Isaac staring at him out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to face him directly. “I’m the sheriff’s son,” he says, letting his gaze flicker over the other boy’s bruises. “And I’m asking you...what you would like to happen?”

Isaac doesn’t quite get it at first, and then Stiles can practically see the eureka moment happening inside his head, can see it dawning on his face. “Please don’t get involved. Promise me you won’t.”

Stiles shrugs, looks down at his lap. “I won’t say a word unless you want me to,” he says simply.

There’s a pause, and Isaac looks at him with a curious mixture of nervous distrust and cautious hope. He bites down on his bottom lip. “I appreciate it and everything,” he says, voice small, timid. “I just don’t want...”

He trails off. Stiles look up at him, trying to keep his sympathetic expression on the right side of pitying. “Yeah?”

Isaac swallows, looks away. “High school won’t last forever,” he mumbles, twisting his hands together.

A blackbird flutters down from the shadows of a gnarled tree, lands on one of the slanted rungs of the monkey bars. Its wings flap at its sides, head twitching as if to shake off some irritant. All along the street, the underground sprinkler system springs into action, little black nozzles popping up from the grass and spraying in semicircular motion, wetting the curb and the lawn. The green blades gleam in the starlight.

“Won’t last forever,” Isaac repeats, more to himself than to Stiles. He looks down the road, expression vacant, pondering. “It’ll be over soon enough.”

Stiles nods slowly, sets his sandwich down on the bench. He looks at Isaac, studies him carefully. “What are you going to do?” he asks quietly. “When you graduate? What do you want?”

The boy’s face contorts strangely, a weird, pained look. Either because it hurts to think about the answer, or because he’s surprised and grateful someone bothered to ask the question. And then he says, “I want to get the hell out of this place and never come back.”

Thirty minutes later, Stiles walks down the sidewalk, leaving Isaac alone on the bench with the remainder of the sandwich, and he meets Derek at the corner, stepping into the passenger’s seat with a heavy sigh.

“We’re not doing it,” he says simply. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

And he braces himself, prepares for the inevitable fight. But it never comes. Derek nods once, starts the car, pulling around in a u-turn to head back down the street. “Okay.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, looks at him skeptically. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The car makes the turn at the corner, and Stiles slumps back in his chair, wedges his knees up against the dashboard. “Maybe Danny,” he suggests, twisting his neck to look at Derek. “That’s what I was going to tell you earlier. He’s started to ask questions. I think Jackson probably hasn’t been very subtle.” Derek makes a noncommittal noise, and Stiles presses on, “It would make more sense. He’s Jackson’s best friend, he’s smart. Loyal, as far as I can tell. He’s already somewhat involved.” A slow, sly smile spreading across his face, he adds, “Plus, we know he’d be more than happy to roll over and submit to you.”

Derek shoots him a withering glare, but he doesn’t deny it. Grumbling lowly, he mutters, “I’ll think about it.” Stiles shrugs.

“Whatever, man. It’s your pack. I’m just saying, it makes a lot more sense to go for a strong, stable guy we already know than someone who probably doesn’t need any more adrenaline going. He’s got plenty of anger already.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, maybe to agree, and then his phone rings, beeping in his pocket. He fishes it out, opens it and presses it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Everything looks good,” Scott says, voice subdued, wavering over the reception. “There aren’t any houses out there, no campsites or anything. It’s perfect, we both think so.”

“Great.” Derek glances at the car’s radio clock. “Have you left yet?”

“Headed back now,” Scott replies, then hangs up.

Derek closes his phone, sets it down in the cup-holder in between his and Stiles’ seats. “Let’s get you back to your car,” he says, making a left turn at the intersection. Stiles’ face glows green in the signal’s electric light.

 

**X.**

Lydia is working late at her desk when the windowpane vibrates with the force of Jackson’s knocking. She jolts, startled, swears under her breath.

“Fuck, Jackson.” She opens the window, allows him to slip in through the crack. “It’s past midnight, what do you want?”

He drops down to the carpet, starts pacing up and down the length of the bed. His breathing is shallow, eyes dilated and glowing softly in the darkness of the room. He stares at her as he paces, expression unreadable.

Lydia frowns. “What’s wrong?”

He stops moving, and she can practically see the wheels turning in his head, can sense the internal struggle playing out. And then he walks over, grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her close.

Her eyes go wide. “Jackson?” she whispers.

He swallows thickly, crashes their lips together, snaking his hand back around her head to twist in her hair. Her mind is a mess, running wild, but her body responds automatically, and she leans into the touch, tilting her head for better access, opening her mouth to allow his tongue in. 

His other hand slides down to cup the small of her back, and he moves her around and back to push them both down to the bedspread. She splays out on her back in the moonlight, reaching up to run her hands through his short-clipped hair, caress his neck, allows him to deepen the kiss. He pulls back for a moment, struggling to pull off his shirt, moving with a sort of panicked urgency. 

Lydia’s eyes are glowing hot now, and her chest heaves as she looks up at him, eyes roaming his body. His fingers slip under the hem of her shirt, and she arches upward to help him remove her shirt, shivers as he unclips the hook of her bra in the back. 

She pulls him down roughly, forces her lips over his, teeth clacking together, almost drawing blood. They’re both right on the verge of wolfing out, and with a sudden burst of strength, she flips them over so she’s on top, pushing him down into the mattress. She runs her nose along the curve of his neck, licks him, eliciting a muffled whimper. There’s a strange scent coming off him, one simultaneously familiar and unknown, but in the heat of the moment, she doesn’t think to question it.

Jackson tries to lift himself off the comforter, to reverse their positions, but she pins him down, one palm splayed out roughly in the center of his chest, the other cupping the front of his jeans. He’s hard now, aroused and straining and she _squeezes_ ,jaw clenching tight. He squirms, eyes rolling back in his head, and he lets out another whimper.

Lydia starts to rock her hips forward to press against his, but she hears him mutter, “No,” and pauses.

“What?” she asks, voice breathless. “No, what?”

He takes advantage of her hesitance and hooks his leg between hers, yanking hard and flipping them around so he’s on top once more. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, licking the heated skin there.

And they don’t do much talking after that.

 

**XI.**

It’s pitch dark by the time Derek returns to the house, and his eyes flash red in the shadows of the foyer as he steps through the entrance.

The smell of dust and fresh wood is still thick in the air, and he takes a moment to admire the new staircase. A golden flash catches his eye, and he turns to look. The brass knocker Stiles had made is sitting on the long table in the living room, faint light from the moon outside glinting off its polished surface. _Hale Residence_ , it says, words carved in thick grooves, loopy writing.

He walks over and picks it up, turning it over in his hand, studying it. It carries the scent of metal and packaging, and of sweat. And Stiles.

He grabs a hammer and a pair of nails from the kitchen and steps out on the porch to attach the knocker to the door. He places it dead center, bangs it into place.

And then he goes back inside.

 

**XII.**

Lydia lies on her back, breathing slowly returning to normal as she lies on top of the sheets, naked and sweating. She grabs the pillow from the opposite side of the bed and lays it on top of her own, propping her head up to watch as Jackson dresses in the corner by the desk.

“Should I ask what the hell that was about?” she asks, voice low and rough.

He turns to look at her, eyes flickering down to stare at her breasts in silent admiration before darting up to meet her gaze. “No,” he says, looking away.

She grunts, moving into a sitting position, wincing at the soreness. She draws the sheets up to her waist, but allows her chest to remain bare, unashamed. “You know this doesn’t mean we’re back together,” she says, reaching over to the beside table and fishing a piece of gum out of the drawer. She pops it into her mouth, chews slowly.

Jackson pauses briefly in the middle of buttoning his pants. He looks uncertain. “No?” he asks.

“No.” Lydia blows a bubble, lets it pop and sucks it back into her mouth. She shakes her head, shrugs. “And don’t think that you seduced me. If I hadn’t wanted this every bit as much as you, I would have knocked your lights out. Understand?”

He blinks, stupefied, then breaks out into a slow, lopsided grin. “You always wore the pants in the relationship,” he murmurs. “We both knew that, no matter what everybody else thought.”

She pauses, surprised by the admission. She crosses her arms over her breasts, strokes her shoulders, willing the goosebumps to go away. “This can be our thing,” she says after a while, as soon as Jackson is fully dressed. “When you need it, when I need it. Whenever we want to blow off some steam.” She gives him a sharp look. “But it’s not dating. You and I are done with that. We gave that a shot and you fucked it up.”

He nods agreeably, expression serious. “I know.”

“Yeah, well...” She extends her arm, beckons him to sit by her on the bed. He comes over and takes her hand, strokes his thumb back and forth over the soft skin. She licks her lips. “I still love you, you know. I always will.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and he doesn’t quite meet her eye. He squeezes her hand. “I know. Love you, too.”

Lydia sighs quietly, breathing out through her nose. Her mouth draws into a thin line, a rueful smile. “I forgive you,” she says, reaches up to touch his cheek gently. “No more weirdness between us. It’s forgotten.”

Jackson nods, then smirks, standing up and letting her hand drop. “There will always be weirdness,” he huffs, mildly amused. “We’re in a fucking _werewolf_ pack.”

She snorts, shakes her head. “Go home, Jackson.”

He winks at her, hops up to the window sill. He closes the glass from the outside, and they share a brief look through the smudged pane, glowing eyes locked together. And then he dips down out of sight, and she when she listens closely, she can hear the sound of his feet pattering off down the sidewalk and far away.

 

**XIII.**

It’s almost 2:00 A.M. when Isaac wakes up, moving groggily into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He’s still on the bench in the park, and his head feels heavy, like a balloon filled with lead. His mouth is dry, and he’s sure his breath is disgusting.

A night owl intones ominously in the trees, and he stands up slowly, dusting off his kneecaps and shoving his hands in his pockets as he walks down the road.

He considers going back to the house, maybe catching a few hours of sleep before sunrise. But ultimately, it doesn’t seem worth it. He kicks a pebble in the street, watches it skid across the surface and tumble down into the grate plating over the gutter. The moon is dull in the sky, light softened by wisps of cloud. It’s not too cold, but he swears he can see his breath fogging up in front of him as he moves on ahead.

He’ll wander until the sun comes up. Just walk until the new day begins. And the day will fall into place much like all the rest, a pattern repeating in rhythm.

Again and again, again and again.

And again.


	5. thunder clouds

**I.**

Stiles can see the dust billowing up in a beige mist on the dirt path as the car draws nearer, sunlight glinting off the windshield, tires skidding on the gravel.

He leans up against the side of his Jeep, arms folded across his chest. The abandoned railway yard is eerily quiet, settled in the valley between the two grassy hills overlooking the interstate. He’s parked by the criss-cross mess of iron tracks, retired locomotive car off to the left, rusty blue warehouse nestled at his right. The smokestack looms tall, silent. No fumes pump out through the opening, and its strangely conic shape gives it the appearance of an enormous spike.

The approaching car slows to a halt some thirty feet away on the other side of the track, and Chris Argent steps out, revolver in hand.

Stiles shoots him a reproachful look. “Seriously?” he calls. 

Chris actually looks almost apologetic, in his poker-faced sort of way. He gives a little sideways shrug, but keeps a firm grasp on the gun as he looks around the vast yard, eyes narrowed. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Hmm.” Stiles bobs his head, concedes the point.

There’s a rumbling overhead, and they both glance to the sky as a flash of lightening cracks down on the distant hilltop, thunder echoing throughout the landscape. It’s supposed to be the storm of the year, and it’s not far off now. Within the hour, it’ll be a monsoon out here.

Stiles rubs up and down his forearm, pushes himself away from the Jeep to meet the hunter somewhere in the middle. Mr. Argent walks towards him, eyes darting around warily, and they stop a few feet away, right in front of the red-rusted boxcar. 

“I was a little surprised that it was you who called,” Chris says, and Stiles relaxes as the man lets the gun dangle loosely at his side. “Not that I ever really expected our paths wouldn’t cross again. But I assumed any future dealings would be initiated by your Alpha.”

Stiles picks at his fingernails, kicks at a rock in the midst of the gravel. “Still a human, just so you know. So he’s not my Alpha. Technically.” He shifts, leaning his weight on one leg. “Anyway, this isn’t pack business. It doesn’t have anything to do with werewolf stuff, or hunter stuff.”

Chris arches an eyebrow. “Oh?” He sounds skeptical, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way he glances over his shoulder, checking for an ambush. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what this is about.”

There’s another crack of thunder, and a loud whinny draws Stiles’ attention. Over Mr. Argent’s shoulder, he can see a dark spotted mare trotting up the grassy knoll to the meadow lying beyond. The sounds of the approaching storm inspire the horse to pick up her pace, and her head twitches to the left, throwing back a mane of black, coarse hair as her hooves come down hard on the earth. Along the swaying canopy of the tree line, Stiles sees droplets of water beginning to hit down, and the sweet smell of warm California rain pervades his senses.

He cuts to the chase. “I need a gun,” he says simply, folds his arms over his chest.

Chris blinks at him, mouth slanted to the side. He seems torn between incredulity and admiration. “Is that so?”

Stiles nods. “Doesn’t have to be a good one, but preferably one with a silencer.” He chews on his bottom lip, tries to gauge the man’s reaction. “It’s not for me,” he continues. “It’s for a...friend, I guess. And like I said, it has absolutely nothing to do with the werewolf situation.”

“You’re underage,” Chris replies, and he almost sounds like a stereotypical concerned adult neighbor figure instead of his usual creepy self. “And even if you weren’t, what makes you think I would do this for you?”

“He’s in trouble,” Stiles says. “He’s in a really bad situation, and it isn’t his fault. And he already made me promise not to involve my dad, or the cops. And Derek’s solution to the problem sort of contradicts the agreement we made with _you_ , so that’s a no-go.” He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Look, I can’t really make you do anything, and if you say no, I’ll just figure something else out. But the way it looks to me now, this is the best option out of a bunch of really shitty choices.”

Chris stares at him, expression betraying no hint of what’s going on inside his head. After a few moments he says, “I’m not going to help you assist in a murder.”

Stiles cocks his head to the side and, mouth working before his brain, replies, “Really? I wouldn’t think you’d have a problem with that.” Mr. Argent’s eyes narrow, and Stiles hastily adds, “But I’m not asking you to. This is a totally, 100% precautionary type measure. Completely self-defense.”

A pause. The wind picks up a bit of speed, whipping at Stiles’ ears, reddening the tips. Dust blows up around the tires of Chris’ car, coloring the paint job around the bottom.

“I would, of course, require something in return,” Chris says after an uncomfortably long silence. “Compensation. I wouldn’t just give it to you for free.”

Stiles pales, licks his lips. “Umm.” He coughs, clears his throat. “Compensation, like...how? Like, what do you mean?”

Chris gives him a weird look. Understanding, his jaw drops, then snaps shut. He rolls his eyes. “Christ, kid. _Money_. Cash payment. What do you think I am?”

“Well, you could have just said money from the get-go!” Stiles snaps, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, shoulders slumped in relief. “And you’re a creepy dude, no offense. I don’t know what you do in your off time...”

“When would you need it by?” Chris interrupts irritably, expression sour. “The gun?”

Stiles thinks for a moment, scratches his chin. He shrugs. “Whenever’s fine. I’ve got enough money saved up to afford a cheaper model. Just, you know...make sure it’s untraceable.”

Chris snorts, and his mouth twists up in a nasty smirk, amused. “I may have underestimated you,” he murmurs. “Next time our paths cross, I’ll be sure to remember how smart you really are.” And with that, he turns, tucking his revolver into the waistband of his jeans, returning to his car.

“Wh-?” Stiles jolts, surprised. “Is that it?” he calls, squinting as the rain starts to sprinkle down on the railway yard. “You’re not going to ask anything else?”

Heaving himself into the front seat of his vehicle, Chris pokes his head out the window, completely nonchalant. “People have the right to protect themselves. I believe that, as you well know. Not my place to question what it’s for.” He points a finger out, jabs it in Stiles’ direction. “But if you or anyone else ends up using the damn thing, my name does not get mentioned. Understand? Because I _will_ come after you.”

Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Crystal clear.”

Chris leans back inside, starts to roll up the glass. “Meet me back here tomorrow, after the weather’s passed. Around noon. Have the money ready.”

The car kicks into high gear, and the tires squeal as he speeds off down the path to the main road. Stiles watches him go, winces as another blast of thunder shakes the sky above him, hills rumbling with the sound. The water begins to pour, and he shakes himself off, jogging back over the railroad tracks to get to the Jeep.

The clouds come together in a perfect blanket of darkness, blocking out the sun. In the field, the horse charges across the grass towards the trees, towards shelter. Lightning strikes the ground several miles up the road: a white, jagged razor touching down from the heavens.

 

**II.**

Danny grins, leans up against the doorframe. “This is starting to look like a real business, dude,” he says, looking around the office space, admiring the new equipment.

“I know, right?” Jackson plugs in the last copy machine, pushes it up flat against the wall. He stands with a grunt, wiping ink residue off on his pants. He looks across the room to Danny, waggles his eyebrows. “Opening day’s next week. Think we’re ready?”

“It looks great, man. Seriously.” Danny drains the rest of the water in his paper cup, crumples it into a ball and tosses it in the trash can. He coughs, stepping away from the door and moving to the middle of the room.

The whole place looks brand new: walls freshly painted, windowpanes replaced, bathroom remodeled and floor retiled. The back room is stocked with sleek, grey filing cabinets, all lined up with new paper. New lighting overhead, wall ripped out to make room for the front office, main room packed with copy equipment and printers and staplers, everything under the sun.

A flash of lightning outside illuminates the interior space, and Danny nods appreciatively, running his hand over the edges of an empty cardboard box on the cash register’s table.

“My dad says I can start off on the floor,” Jackson calls, adjusting a stack of copy paper on the shelf by the right back corner. “Maybe do customer service stuff, you know? And after I go to college get my business degree, I can work my way up to manager.” He dusts off his hands, comes around the shelf to join Danny by the water cooler. “This whole thing is really just my dad’s pet project, so eventually I’ll be in charge of everything.”

Danny nods slowly, not entirely masking his surprise. “And that’s what you want to do?” he asks, gestures vaguely around the room. “Run the store?”

Jackson makes a noncommittal sound. “I guess so. Yeah. I mean, it’s just a job, right? It’s more or less the same as doing anything else.” He fills up a cup of water, watches the bubbles rise up in the blue filtered tank. “I’m actually pretty good at this business stuff, if I say so myself. So I might as well stick with what I know.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Danny leans back against the register, raps his hands on the counter lightly. He worries his lip between his teeth, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. Jackson straightens up, lifts the cup to his mouth. He gives Danny a questioning look.

“What’s up?”

Danny shakes his head indifferently. “Nothing. It’s just a little surprising, I suppose. I mean, in all of the time we’ve known each other, you’ve never once brought up the subject of what you wanted to do with the rest of your life. Career-wise, at least.” He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Although, I guess if you’ve never mentioned it, I can’t be too surprised by whatever you pick. Since you never gave me any expectations to work with.”

Jackson frowns, takes another sip, sets the cup down on the nearby table. “You don’t have a problem with it, do you?” he asks uncertainly. “I know it’s not, like, overly ambitious or whatever-”

“No, no.” Danny shakes his head, reaches out to tap his friend’s shoulder, smiles reassuringly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s great you’ve found something you want to do.” He scratches his cheek, glances around the store once more. “I guess I’m more surprised by the fact that you’d want to stick around here after graduation. You always struck me as the type to want to get away.”

Jackson leans back against the wall, shoes squeaking on the new tile. A clap of thunder outside resounds, and the windowpanes vibrate in the force of the storm. The rainwater patters against the glass, loud slapping noises. “I thought so, too,” Jackson admits. “For a while, at least. But I changed my mind. I have...things holding me here. And I think it’s better for me to stay.”

Danny looks at him carefully, face slowly scrunching up into a mixture of concern and frustration. He moves closer, right up into Jackson’s space. He places his hands on both sides of the boy’s head, pinning him against the wall. Jackson blinks at him, startled. “What the hell is with you lately?” Danny mumbles, voice low, tires. He drops one hand to Jackson’s shoulder, squeezes. “Seriously, man. I’m worried about you. I’ve tried to give you your space, let you figure out stuff on your own.” He takes a single step away, reaches up to rub his eyes with the backs of his hands. “For a while, I thought it was about Lydia. The breakup. But now...I just...” He sighs. “Come on. Don’t shut me out.”

“I...” Jackson swallows thickly, eyes darting down to the floor. He lets out a sort of breathless half-laugh, scratching the back of his head as he pushes himself away from the wall. “Well, for starters, I’m a werewolf,” he says, intentionally layering his voice with as much false sarcasm as he can muster. “And I stole a suitcase stuffed with a million dollars from a dead guy. Lydia and I have started fucking again, but I’ve been having sex dreams about Scott McCall for the past week or so.” He shrugs. “So that about covers it.”

Danny stares at him, and for a terrible moment, Jackson thinks he looks angry. But then his expression relaxes into a sort of weary amusement. “Well that was creative,” Danny chuckles, shaking his head disbelievingly. He snorts, mouth widening into a full-on grin, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling. Jackson laughs with him, sounding obviously nervous even to his own ears. Danny looks back to him, serious once more. “So should I take that as a sign that you’re not going to tell me?” he asks quietly.

Jackson bites back the urge to break out into hysterical laughter, forces himself to keep his expression neutral. He steps forward, ignoring Danny’s small noise of surprise, wraps his arms around the other boy, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m just sorting out some things in my own head,” he murmurs, resting his chin on Danny’s shoulder, rubbing his back. “I’m not shutting you out, I promise. I just need a little more time to get right with myself.”

Danny stands rigid for a second, unsure of how to react to this out-of-character admission, and to the unusual display of affection. But eventually he relaxes into the embrace, pats Jackson’s back awkwardly. “You know you can tell me anything,” he says, not even trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “I’ll always be here for you.”

“Hmm,” Jackson hums softly, mouth slanting up at the side. He steps away, nodding. “I know that. And as soon as I’m ready, you’ll be the first person I talk to. I swear.”

A ear-splitting crack shatters the quiet moment, and the boys jump at the sound, turning to the window to watch as the tree by the sidewalk breaks in two at the base of its trunk, falling over to land in the flooded road, branches and leaves snapping free, whisked away down the gutters. There’s a noisy screech as a car skids to a halt, narrowly avoiding the fallen oak. The headlamps illuminate the wreckage in the road. It only takes a few seconds for horns to start blaring, drivers leaning out of their windows, checking up ahead to see the problem.

“Well, shit,” Danny deadpans, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He glances at Jackson, eyebrow raised. “Should we, uh, call somebody?”

Jackson moves around him, fishing around in his pocket for the office key. “I’ll get the phone book.”

 

**III.**

There’s a thud from above, too soft for human hearing, but perfectly audible to Derek’s sharply tuned senses. He pauses, paintbrush in hand, listens carefully. Definitely footsteps. Someone moving around the foyer upstairs.

He sets the paintbrush down, moves away from the basement wall. He mounts the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

It’s Lydia, standing in the living room, soaking wet and dripping on the new carpet. 

“What’s up?” he asks, wiping flakes of dried paint off his white t-shirt. 

She sets her purse on the table, looks up at him as she shakes out her sopping hair. “Notebook,” she says, pointing at a purple binder sitting on the kitchen counter. “I left it here last time I was over, and I need for it for a project.” She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “I forgot the storm was today. I thought the weather guy said it was next Monday.”

Derek nods absently, studying her. He gestures meaninglessly at her wet clothes. “I’ve got a hairdryer upstairs,” he says lamely. “If you want to try and...yeah.”

She arches an eyebrow at the suggestion, blinks. After a few seconds, “You have a hairdryer?”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, nods once. “Yes. Well, no. Technically yes. It’s Allison’s, I think. I found it sitting in the bathroom a while back, and she just said I should keep it. ‘Just in case,’ were her exact words, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Lydia snorts. “That sounds like something she’d say.” She shakes her head. “Next thing, she’ll be buying you hair products.” Derek fidgets slightly, tries to cover it up. Lydia notices, though, and she gives him a disbelieving look. “Seriously?”

He scowls, head jerking irritably. “Just shampoo,” he mutters. “I didn’t _ask_ her to get it, she just _did._ ” He shrugs. “No reason to turn down a free gift.”

“Gifts are always free for the receiver,” Lydia replies airily. “That’s kinda the definition.” Then, before he can retort, “Are you going to bring me the hairdryer or not?”

Derek smirks, turns to head upstairs.

He fumbles around in the bathroom drawers, sifting through the clutter within. Pulling out the hairdryer and untangling the cord, he can hear Lydia pacing around the downstairs area, her shoes squelching with rainwater.

Walking out from the bathroom into his bedroom, he pauses at the door, glances up to the corner where the new wallpaper is starting to peel. The adhesive underneath is loose, sticky and yellow, and Derek sets the hairdryer down, squats down by the bed to pick up the canister of paste. “Shoes off!” he calls out the door, spreading a thin layer of the gunky glue on the end of a ruler, hopping up on his toes to wipe it on the exposed corner of wall.

“You got it, boss,” Lydia calls back, and Derek grimaces at the blatant sarcasm in her voice. 

He pops the cap back on the canister, picks up the hairdryer to take downstairs.

“You picked a hell of a day to stop by,” he says upon returning, handing it over to her.

She takes it, fiddles with the cord. “Like I said, I though the storm was next week.” She gestures around, flopping her hand. “Outlet?” Then, with a frown, “Do you even have electricity?”

Derek grins slightly, holds up a hand for her to wait. Moving back into the foyer, he flips the newly installed light switch by the door. The rounded bulbs in the ceiling fan above flicker to life, bathing the room in warm light accompanied by a low humming noise. “Just got it up and running this morning,” he says. “Nice, yeah?"

Lydia nods, looking up at the fan. “Yeah, I like it.” She looks back to him, expectant. “Outlet?”

He points. “There in the corner. Just unplug the TV set.”

The little television is still stationed on the floor by the window, screen dusty from lack of use. Lydia squats down beside it, resting her hand on top as she yanks out the cord, plugs in the hairdryer. The loud whine starts up, and she brushes her hair to the side, waving the dryer up and down the length of her locks. “Thanks,” she says after a minute or so, just loud enough so Derek can hear.

He nods absently, hands stuffed in his pockets. He glances towards the basement door, snaps his fingers to get Lydia’s attention, points. “I’m finishing up painting the basement,” he says, edging in that direction. He glances towards the window, and a coupling of thunder and lightning flashes and reverberates through the walls. “You should probably hang out here for while. Just until things settle down.”

Lydia chews on her lip, looks away from him. She continues to dry herself, moving down to warm her wet sleeves. After a minute, “Yeah, okay. I guess I can do homework or something.”

Derek grunts agreeably, turns to leave.

He closes the basement door behind him, returns downstairs to finish the job. Scraping the fibers of the paintbrush up and down in constant motion, he can just pick up the sound of Lydia’s pencil scribbling away, somewhere above the floorboards overhead.

 

**IV.**

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles is saying, cell phone pressed to one ear, finger jammed tightly in the other to try and drown out the sound of the rain as he stands beside the window. “I’m at Scott’s house.” A pause. “Yeah, no, I get it. I won’t leave until the storm’s-.....yeah......yes..... _Okay._ I will.....I _will_.....huh?.....Uh, Allison’s here, too....okay. Yeah, goodbye.”

Scott lounges on the carpet nearby, listening in with amusement while Allison sits cross-legged on the opposite side of the game board, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she examines her letter pieces. “Venus is a proper noun, isn’t it?” she mutters.

“Yes it is,” Scott replies absently, grinning as Stiles hangs up his phone with a scowl. “And thanks for telling me what letter you have.” He waggles his eyebrows as Stiles rejoins them, plopping down on the floor with a sigh. “Daddy checking in on ya, dude?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles, punching him playfully in the shoulder. He shakes his head disbelievingly. “He’s acting super weird lately. Just now, when I told him I was hanging out here, he asked if the two of us were alone. Acting all suspicious, you know? And then when I mentioned Allison was here too, he was all like, ‘Okay. That’s cool.’ How fucked up is that?!”

Scott’s eyebrows lift, and Allison frowns. “That’s odd,” she says. Stiles bobs his head in vehement agreement.

“No shit. And you know why? He confronted me the other day about all of the time I’ve been spending with Danny. Wanted to know what we’ve been doing.” He looks pointedly between Scott and Allison. “You know?...”

Allison covers her mouth with her hand, smothers her laughter. Scott’s mouth twitches. “Did he try to give you the talk?” he asks, trying to maintain a serious face. 

Stiles shoots him a withering glare. “It’s not funny, dude! My dad thinks I’m gay!”

Allison’s shoulders start shaking, and she leans across the board to bury her face in the crook of Scott’s neck, giggling. Scott snorts. “Well...you _did_ have that phase where you were asking everybody if gay guys thought you were attractive. So...you know...”

Stiles flails helplessly, drops his arms down in defeat. “But...he...you....It’s just _lab work_! For _school_!”

Scott pats his shoulder sympathetically. “Of course, buddy.”

“You should really be more concerned about this,” Stiles grumbles, jabbing him in the chest with his forefinger. “He basically just implied that he thinks I’m fucking _you_ , too. So think about _that_ before making your little jokes.”

Scott hums thoughtfully. “I can see how he might think that. I mean, we basically do everything together...”

Stiles gapes at him, eyes bulging, then sits back with a scowl, letting it drop. “Ugh, whatever. I tried to tell him that Danny and I are just friends, and that we’re _barely_ even _that_ , but I don’t think he believed me.”

“He didn’t have a problem with it, did he?” Allison asks, sitting up, finally recovered from her laughter fit.

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he grumbles. “He bought me condoms. And lube. And an instructional book with a picture and title which my brain has mercifully decided to block from my memory. I’m not kidding, it’s like he turned into a full-on, free love, ganja toking hippie for, like, forty-five minutes there.”

“Forty-five minutes?” Scott pipes up, trying not to sound too gleeful. “Dude...”

“I know,” Stiles groans miserably, burying his face against his kneecaps. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

Allison makes a quiet noise of triumph, picking up her game pieces and setting them out on the board. “Twenty-three points,” she announces cheerfully, smirking at her boyfriend. “Mark it.”

“No way,” Scott says disbelievingly, leaning over to check. 

“It’ll be fine,” Allison tells Stiles, reaching over to rub his back soothingly, ignoring Scott’s discontented mutterings as he writes down her score. “Your dad’s smart, and he’s a cop. He’ll eventually figure out there’s nothing between you and Danny. Just wait and see.” She pauses, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Besides, everybody knows Danny’s not the one you have your eye on.”

Scott stops writing for a second, shoots her a warning glance. Stiles looks up, frowns. “What, Lydia?” he asks. “I told you guys, I’ve given up on that. She’s not interested.”

Allison nods, expression purposefully blank. “I know,” she says serenely.

Stiles’ eyes narrow suspiciously. He glances at Scott, who’s looking determinedly at a spot on the wall, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Okay, so what are you talking about then?”

Scott bites his lip, says nothing. Allison shrugs. “Oh, nothing.”

Stiles turns back to Scott, fixes him with a steely-eyed glare. “Scott.”

Scott tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, breathes out a little sigh. “It’s okay, dude...” he says awkwardly, not quite meeting Stiles’ gaze. “It’s not like any of us _care_. You like who you like, right?”

Allison hums in agreement. “That’s right.” She scoots closer to Stiles, wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We all support you. Even Jackson said he thought it was cute.” She tilts her head to the side, squints. “Although, come to think of it, he was probably be sarcastic,” she muses. “Still.”

Stiles stares at her. Turns to look at Scott. Stares at him. Blinks. “I...what the _fuck_ are you two talking about?!?”

Allison sighs, removes her arm from around his shoulders. Scott just rolls his eyes. “Nothing at all, man. Not a thing.”

Stiles gapes like a fish, mouth working open and closed. He eventually settles on snapping his jaw shut and focusing on the game, deciding he doesn’t really want to know anyway.

 

**V.**

They’re sitting in the side office now, and the stench of alcohol has spread to permeate every square inch of the room. Danny peers out through the blinds, watches as the tow truck backs up, pulling the remains of the tree out of the road. The crossing guard blows his whistle, waves for the line of cars to move around the debris.

Danny lets go of the blinds, steps away from the glass. “We...we are gonna to have to Febreze the shit out of this place,” he slurs, filling up his shot-glass once more, lifting it to his mouth and tossing the vodka back.

Jackson stops spinning in the swivel chair, tilts his head to sniff. He chuckles drunkenly. “Yes we are.” He resumes spinning. “Worth it, though.”

A car whizzes by outside, and its rear lights shine in through the window as it passes, casting Danny in eerie silhouette backed by a faint red glow. Danny sits down on the opposite side of the desk, licks the taste of booze off his lips. “You still want to go to college in-state, right?” he asks, reclining in his seat.

“For sure.” Jackson takes the vodka bottle and screws the top back on, sets it back in its hiding place inside the lower left drawer of the desk. “I mean, it’s still too far off to really think about where specifically, but yeah. In-state, definitely.”

Danny makes a soft, pleased sound. “I think I’d want to live in an apartment instead of a dorm,” he says, and Jackson bobs his head in agreement.

“Yeah, that would be good.” He smiles, drops his feet down to the floor, away from the tabletop. “We could be roommates.”

“If we go to the same school,” Danny says. “Which I wanna, of course.”

Jackson slips slowly out of the chair, lies down on his back on the ground. “Right, right.” He yawns, tucks his hands behind his head. “So an apartment then? Not into the whole ‘campus life experience’ thing?”

Danny grins. “Shut up, _Mom_.”

Jackson chuckles, closes his eyes. “Okay.”

They fall silent for a time, listening to the sound of the cars going by, the generator whirring in the back room. Danny blinks rapidly as the passing headlamps sting at his eyes, and he swivels around in his chair to face Jackson, looks down at his friend lying on the floor.

“Hey, Jacks?” he says quietly.

Jackson doesn’t open his eyes, just squirms a little on the ground. “Hmm?”

Danny chews on his bottom lip, straightens in his seat, chair creaking slightly as he does so. “That joke you made earlier...about the werewolves and stuff.”

Jackson goes still, and Danny can’t quite make out his expression through the darkness of the room. “Uh huh?”

“Yeah, well. Obviously _that_ part of it wasn’t true...” Danny pauses, scratches his chin uncomfortably. “But you mentioned, umm....you mentioned something about Scott. And...I dunno. I just get the feeling that maybe you weren’t kidding about that.”

Silence. Jackson’s eyes flutter open slowly, staring up at the ceiling with a sort of vacant detachment. “Ah.”

Danny swallows thickly, rubs his temples. “Umm...yeah. I mean, if I’m wrong, just tell me so. But if I’m not...you know. You can talk to me. Obviously.”

Jackson sits up groggily, pushes himself backwards until he’s leaning up against the wall. A bar of light from the window shines across his face, and Danny can see his subdued expression more clearly now. “Okay,” Jackson says, sounding somewhat more sober. “So I wasn’t kidding.”

“Oh.” Danny scoots the chair closer, looks down at his friend. “Alright then.”

Jackson looks away from him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It’s not really something we have to talk about,” he mutters. “There’s nothing much to say. It’s just...a thing. A thing that will pass.” He shrugs, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. “It’s just these stupid dreams...and I...” 

He trails off, and Danny slips out of his chair to join him on the floor. “What kind of dreams?” Jackson gives him a meaningful look, and Danny nods, shifting to sit with him against the wall. “Gotcha.”

“Again, it doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Jackson says, a little more forcefully than necessary. Reeling it back in, lowering his voice, he continues, “Not that I would have a problem with being gay. Or bi, or whatever. You know that.” A pause. “I just don’t...” He shrugs. “I know who I am. And I don’t really feel like turning all of that upside down because of a stupid...”

“Crush?” Danny finishes helpfully, and Jackson glares at him.

“ _No_. Not a crush.” He clasps his hands, rubs them together thoughtfully. “Just a...I dunno.”

Danny bumps up against Jackson’s shoulder, a playful knock, reassuring. “You’ll be fine,” he says quietly. “You always are.”

Jackson snorts, but his expression betrays his gratitude. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean it.” Danny reaches over, ruffles Jackson’s hair. And while it would probably seem goofy - or even condescending - in any other context, the drunken gesture feels brotherly, sweet. “And if it _is_ a crush, so what? It doesn’t matter. Whatever you do, don’t repress your own feelings. Just let yourself _feel_ , dude. Let it ride itself out. And, you know...eventually...” He makes a vague motion. “It’ll be okay. One way or the other.”

Jackson looks at him blankly for a moment, then bursts out laughing. “That advice was _really_ fucking gay, man.”

Danny grins back, mock-punches him in the jawbone.

 

**VI.**

Derek steps back, proudly surveys his handiwork. The wall is a sort of muted, grey color. Lighter than the black ash hue it once had, but not overly cheerful. It feels right. 

He ascends the creaking staircase, flicks off the overhead light as he exits.

Lydia is sitting at the long table in the living room, working on her homework, calculator in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear. A pink, rectangular eraser is sitting beside her open notebook, little flakes of dust peppering the brown wood here and there. Her eyes are narrowed in concentration.

She’s sitting in Derek’s chair.

He steps into the room and, hearing him, she looks up. “Get it finished?” she asks, and Derek forces himself to assume that the affectlessness of her tone just means that she’s tired, not that she doesn’t care. 

“All done,” he confirms, nodding. “Looks good, if I say so myself.”

“Hmm.” Lydia tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, removes the pencil placed there. She glances to the window as a faint roll of thunder sounds out. “Storm’s dying down, I think. It’s probably okay for me to drive now.”

Derek looks to the window, observes the slower pace of the rainfall. “If that’s what you want,” he says blankly.

Lydia blinks. “Okay.”

They stare at each other. The pitter-patter of the rain cuts a mish-mashed tempo through the deadened silence, a staccato rhythm playing in repetition without a tune. Derek glances over Lydia’s shoulder, sees the wallpaper is peeling away at the corner in this room, too. He really needs to buy some better adhesive.

The clock in the kitchen is quiet, second hand ticking away without a sound. The low hum of the refrigerator underscores everything.

Derek sighs, rubs his eyes. “Are we ever going to get past this?” he asks, gesturing between himself and Lydia. “Whatever this is?”

She looks at him, expressionless, raps her fingernails on the edge of the table. “I couldn’t tell you,” she says calmly. “What do you think the problem is?”

He bites his lip, stifles the frustrated noise threatening to rise up from inside his chest. “I don’t _know_ ,” he grits out, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m the one who’s been trying. I’ve wracked my brain over and over again, trying to think of what exactly I might have done to piss you off, and I’ve come up dry every time.” He leans against the doorframe, fixes her with a steady glare. “I’m through with guessing. You can either tell me what the fuck is the matter, or we can keep playing at this bullshit."

Lydia lets out a breathless little laugh, bitter. She stands, leaving her notebook lying open on the table. “You ‘wracked your brain,’ did you?” she says, miming his tone. “You ‘came up dry?’ Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly don’t know?”

Derek growls, eyes blazing red. “Watch yourself,” he snarls. “I’ve give you leeway up until now, but I’m still your Alpha. Show some respect.”

Her eyes flash bright, hot with fury. “Respect?” she breathes, disbelieving, outraged. She shakes her head. “I never _asked_ for this, Hale. I never consented. Or did you forget?”

His eyes revert back to normal hue, widened in shock. “ _That’s_ it?” he mutters lowly. “That’s all?” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Dropping his hand away, he glares at her, mouth twitching irritably. “I don’t think you understand how this works. There is no requirement of consent. I don’t _have_ to ask permission to turn someone. I don’t _have_ to ask.” He ignores her look of bewilderment, of hurt. He continues, “You were in a coma. There was no telling when you would come out of-”

“But I _would_ have!” she interrupts loudly, and she now seems less angry than exhausted, helpless. “There was never any risk of me _dying_ , and you know it! So don’t give me some line about ‘saving my life.’ Because we both know that’s bullshit.”

“It was for your protection,” Derek snaps. “It was because I needed a female presence in the pack, someone to balance out all of the testosterone driven macho posturing. And you’ve been _helpful_ at that, whether you know it or not.” He takes a step closer, looming over her. “I did it because you’re smart. And I needed that, too.”

Lydia swallows nervously, but she doesn’t back down. She juts her chin out, looks up at him, meets his fierce stare with one of her own. “Not that I don’t appreciate being the token girl on your team,” she says sarcastically, “but Stiles is smart, in case you haven’t noticed. So that’s not reason enough.”

“I know he is,” Derek growls, vein pulsing in his neck. “I fucking know that.”

A strange light comes into Lydia’s eyes, and her expression softens into something inscrutable. “I know you know that,” she says cryptically. “And I’m not the only one who can see it.”

Derek’s growling dies away, and he blinks, surprised. “What are you implying?” he asks dangerously, stepping away from her. 

“I’m not implying anything,” she replies, shrugs. “I’m just saying...it’s not exactly a secret. Maybe you’re blind to it, but the rest of us are just waiting for one of you to make a move.”

Derek sees red, and he grabs her by the shoulders, slams her up against the wall. She winces in pain, but doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch from his razor sharp teeth. “He’s a kid!” Derek snarls, hating himself for the way his voice wavers. “I would never...”

Lydia huffs skeptically, but doesn’t retort. She doesn’t need to.

Derek fumes silently for a minute or so, his claws ripping jagged lines along the sleeves of Lydia’s shirt. Eventually, grudgingly, he releases her, moves back. He starts to pace up and down the length of the room, glaring at her, eyes still burning hot.

“You didn’t need me,” Lydia says softly. All of the anger seems to have drained out of her. She almost looks as though she pities him. And that’s even worse than the rage. “And if you did, you could have waited until I woke up. You could have _asked_.”

“Yeah,” Derek replies coldly. “Well, I didn’t. And as I said before, I didn’t _have_ to. I have no obligation to seek anyone’s consent.”

Lydia’s chest rises and falls in a quiet sigh. “Why are you trying so hard to be a bad guy when it’s painfully obvious you’re capable of better?”

And Derek doesn’t really know what to say to that. He opens his mouth to retort, snaps it shut. Turning away jerkily, he moves to the corner and heaves the television into his arms with a quiet grunt. Without another word, he moves into the foyer, kicks the hall door open, returns to the basement.

Stepping away from the wall, Lydia rubs at the quickly healing bruises on her upper arms. She sits down at the table, slumps over, exhausted. 

The refrigerator’s hum soothes her weary mind.

 

**VII.**

“And you can’t tell your dad?” Scott asks, lifting his head from Allison’s lap to look directly at Stiles.

“No, dude.” Stiles rolls over on his back, splayed out on the bedspread, tossing a rubber ball up in the air and catching it. He looks at Scott upside down, shakes his head. “Isaac made me promise. And it would probably be a bad idea anyway. His dad’s a psycho, but I don’t think he’s an idiot. And child abuse cases are really tricky. If they try to arrest the guy without sufficient proof, they’ll just end up making the situation worse for Isaac.”

“That poor boy,” Allison murmurs sadly, stroking Scott’s hair as he plops back down on her lap.

Scott makes a soft noise of agreement.

Stiles isn’t sure exactly when the conversation turned serious, but the weather outside certainly isn’t helping with the mood of doom and gloom. “It’s such a fucking mess,” he sighs, flopping over to lie on his stomach. He lets the ball roll out of his hand, fall to the floor and disappear under the bed. “A total mess.”

“Have you talked to Derek about it?” Allison pipes up, pausing in her brushing motions. “Maybe he’d be able to help?”

Stiles shakes his head firmly. “Uh, no. He’s actually the one who told me what was going on. But his idea for fixing the situation was...well, we’re not doing it.”

Scott moves into a sitting position, crawls over to sit by the foot of the bed. He looks up at Stiles, eyebrows knitted together in a slight frown. “What was Derek’s plan?”

Stiles reaches out, pats Scott on the head. “Nothing, buddy. Don’t worry about it.”

Scott growls playfully, grabs hold of Stiles’ arm and yanks him off the bed. Stiles lands on the floor with a squawk, and Scott grabs his wrists, pins him down. “Come on!” he coaxes teasingly. “Tell me.”

“Dude,” Stiles protests, trying to get up. He chuckles at Scott’s persistence, then cringes as nails start to dig into the sensitive nerves beneath his skin. “Ouch! You’re hurting me, man. Ease up.”

Scott lets go immediately, backs away. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Stiles frowns, bemused. “It’s cool. No big deal.”

“Yeah.” Scott nods absently, expression distant.

Allison looks between the two of them questioningly. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just pushes the game board out of the way and scoots closer to them, leans up against Scott’s side. “So what _are_ you going to do?” she asks, directing her attention at Stiles.

He rubs his wrists, sucks on the inside of his cheek. “I’m dealing with it. But it’s probably better if you don’t know the details.”

Allison arches an eyebrow. “Ooh, I’m intrigued.”

Stiles’ mouth slants up at the side. He shakes his head. “Seriously though.” He waves her off. “Forget I said anything. It’s taken care of.” He sighs. “I’m just worried about him, that’s all. I can’t imagine living with someone like that.”

Scott comes out of his stupor, returns to the conversation. “As long as you’ve got a plan, I guess.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Yeah, I do.” He turns to the window. “Looks like the rain is slowing down...”

 

**VIII.**

The sheriff crosses his legs, perched on the edge of the desk. He watches as the two officers scan through the folders in their laps, scratches his chin and tunes out the white noise drone of the fax machine out in the hall.

“Any questions?” he asks.

The man on the right - Martinez, he thinks - clears his throat, closes his folder. “Just a few, sir.” He adjusts his glasses, mouth turned down, perplexed. “I’m not entirely sure what this assignment is for. It doesn’t seem to be related to any of our ongoing investigations...”

The sheriff nods. “It isn’t. This is off the books for now. The specifics are need to know.” He folds his arms, looks between them, expression serious. “And it needs to stay between us for now. Off the record. You’ll still be paid, of course. I’ll authorize the overtime forms.”

The woman on the left makes a quiet sound, flips a page in her folder to reveal of photograph of the Argent house. “So, it’s just a stakeout?” she asks. “We just sit and watch the place?”

“That’s right.” The sheriff stands, moves around the desk to get to the coffee machine, presses start. “Keep a lookout for suspicious activity, do _not_ engage unless necessary. You call me directly if you acquire any pertinent information.”

The officers glance between one another, silently communicating. The man shrugs. “Yeah, no problem, boss,” he says. “Can I ask what sort of activity we’re looking for?”

The sheriff lifts his mug to his mouth, pauses. “I’m not sure yet.” He takes a sip. “But they may be involved in a recent homicide. So...eyes open, yeah?”

 

**IX.**

Lydia paces up and down the length of the new rug in the foyer, bare feet brushing against the carpet as she walks. For a while, she could hear dull thudding sounds emanating from the basement as Derek works, but the house has now fallen silent.

The only noises apart from those of the weather are the humming refrigerator and the scratching of Lydia’s feet on the floor. Everything else is dull, muted.

There is a cobweb up in the far right corner of the open space, and Lydia watches as a small, black spider crawls slowly up the silvery strands to nestle at the center of its makeshift home. All of the broken glass has been replaced and the door resealed, so the sounds of the storm are muffled as the rain starts to die away. The lightning has long since ceased, and Lydia knows she can go home any time she wants.

And she almost does, once or twice. She even goes to grab her bag, makes it all the way to the door before stopping, lowering her face to bang her forehead gently against the wooden surface. Glancing over her shoulder, she looks to the basement door, listens quietly for any sound. 

Nothing.

She sighs, drops her purse by the door. 

The basement door opens with a creak, and she steps down into the darkness, blinks to adjust her eyes. There’s a dim light glowing from somewhere below, and she can pick up the low hiss of the TV static as she descends into the room.

Derek is crouched on the floor, legs crossed, elbows propped up on his knees. He’s staring at the screen, unblinking, just watching the images flicker by. Watching a video with the sound turned off.

Lydia looks to the screen and sees a young boy and girl together at a kitchen table. It takes a moment, but she examines the layout of the room in the video, recognizes it as the old Hale house. The way it was before the fire. And she can put the pieces together from there.

The boy is young, maybe seven or eight, and he’s laughing and smiling brightly, turning to wave at the camera as the girl leans over the table and blows out the candles on a pink birthday cake. The boy claps and reaches over to adjust the conic hat on the girl’s head. She smiles and pulls a candle out of the cake, licks the icing off. The camera wobbles slightly, and both children turn to grin at the person filming. The angle adjusts, turning to the left to include a dark-haired woman in the shot.

Lydia hears a sharp intake of breath, and she turns away from the screen to look at Derek. His eyes are wet with unshed tears, shoulders vibrating in a restrained tremor, right on the verge of wolfing out. She can hear the pace of his heartbeat picking up, hammering fast and loud in his chest.

“Derek,” she murmurs.

He either doesn’t hear her, or just ignores her, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. The woman - at the prompting of the cameraman - steps around the table to stand between the two children, and the three of them look off to the left, smiling as someone else takes their picture. The camera flashes, and the boy leans over to wrap his arm around the girl’s shoulder.

Derek lets out a quiet, piteous little sound, and Lydia bites her lip. “Derek,” she says again.

He rises up, whirls on her, teeth bared and eyes blazing. “Get out!” he snarls, and she can tell he’s about to lose it.

“Derek,” she says once more, because she can’t say _I’m sorry_. Because that doesn’t cover it. That’s not enough.

He looks for a moment like he really might snap, might slam her against the wall and rip her throat out. But then he just sort of _collapses_ in on himself, shoulders slumping, eyes fading into black. “Get out,” he whispers, looking away from her.

She shakes her head, even though he’s not looking. Takes a step closer, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t,” she says heavily.

And he doesn’t turn her away. They find themselves instead sitting together on the couch in the darkness of the basement, inhaling the scent of fresh paint and staring as the videotape plays out for the next hour and a half, cycling through various events in a life long forgotten. Derek eventually moves to lie on his side, drops his head down to rest in Lydia’s lap as he stares at the screen. And although she’s surprised, she doesn’t push him away. She just takes her hands and cards her fingers through his hair. Slow, soothing motions.

The tape displays the family outside watching fireworks, shows Laura and Derek on the front lawn with sparklers, running along the perimeter of the woods, dark shadows of the trees looming above as the flickering lights of their wands pass along the way. 

Derek closes his eyes, makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. Lydia swallows thickly, brushes his hair away from his forehead, takes her other hand and touches it lightly to his forearm. “Shh...” she whispers.

And they stay like that. Even after the tape is finished and leaves only static behind. They stay on the couch and fall asleep as the storm outside gives way to silent night.

 

**X.**

Sunrise.

Danny wakes up with an ache in his back, still reclined in a sitting position up against the wall of the front office. He looks down to see Jackson’s head resting in his lap, and he gives him a little jostle, shakes him until his eyes flutter open. “Morning,” he mutters.

Jackson blinks up at him, pulls away into a sitting position. “Morning,” he yawns.

A ray of light filters in through the blinds, and Danny stands with a wince, moves over to peer out the window. The wreckage of the fallen tree is completely gone now, cleared away. Cars drive by freely, kicking up flurries of leaves as they pass. Danny glances across to the opposite side of the street where the neon sign of the nearby diner flickers on to read _Open_.

He turns to look at Jackson. “Wanna go across the road?” he asks. “Get some breakfast?”

Jackson stands groggily, groans. “Fuck me...killer hangover.” He rubs his forehead. “Do they have waffles?”

Danny nods. “And pancakes.”

Jackson thinks for a moment, bobs his head in agreement. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Danny waits for him in the main room, steps over to the water cooler to wash down the taste of morning breath and alcohol with clear, cool liquid. He looks around the clean space, dust free and perfectly arrayed. It’ll be successful, he thinks. Business will be good.

Jackson pops out of the office after a minute or so, straightening his collar, hair all a mess. He grins at Danny, waggles his eyebrows.

They meet at the door and walk out into the sunlight.

 

**XI.**

Chris steps down the front steps from the porch, tugging at the sleeves of his bathrobe. Yawning sleepily, he walks down to the end of the drive, bends down to pick up the morning paper. It’s a bright day, cloudless. If not for the lingering smell of the rain, there would be no indication that a storm had come through here at all. The birds are out and chirping, sun shining. It’s a new day.

He flips through the front pages absently, adjusting his reading glasses on the end of his nose. He pauses, lowers the paper. 

At the far end of the street, there is a white car with tinted windows, parked facing his direction. Just sitting there. Chris can’t recall ever seeing it before.

He folds the newspaper, tucks it under his arm. Lowering the rims of his glasses, he squints in the morning light, peers down the road. He can’t see through the windshield. The car starts up almost immediately, and he can hear the rumble of the engine revving up. The tires squeal as the vehicle makes a slow u-turn, heading back down away from the house, up the road and out of sight.

Chris frowns, troubled. He takes the paper out from under his arm, raps his fingers on the front page.

He stands there for a full minute, then turns to head back up to the house, glancing over his shoulder once or twice before reentering.

 

**XII.**

When Lydia wakes, she still on the couch, but Derek is gone.

She’s lying on her back with a blanket tucked under her chin, and her purse is lying on the floor nearby.

There’s a metallic banging sound upstairs, and she sits up sleepily, stands to go investigate.

Derek is in the kitchen, hair damp from a recent shower, dressed in his usual black shirt and jacket, clean pair of jeans. He’s standing by the stove, frying bacon in a pan. An open bottle of orange juice sits on the counter nearby.

“Breakfast?” he calls, not bothering to turn around.

Lydia hesitates, running a hand through her messy hair. She nods slowly, sits on the new barstool by the counter. “Yeah, sure. Got to make it quick, though. My mom’s going to be pissed I didn’t call.”

Derek turns to look at her, expression unreadable. “Right.” He looks back to the pan, flips the bacon over. Steam rises up, bubbles popping up in the sizzling grease.

They eat together in silence, sitting side by side on the stools, forks scraping against their plates as they chew their food. It’s different, though. Lydia can’t quite put her finger on it, but she knows it’s different from the uncomfortable silences they’ve shared in the past. It feels more natural. It feels okay.

She drains her glass of orange juice, sets it down with a sharp clink. “Well, I’m off,” she announces, standing. She pulls the strap of her purse over her shoulder, edges towards the living room. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Derek reaches out and catches her hand as she moves to leave. She stiffens, gazing at him warily, uncertainly. His eyes are cast down, expression blank as ever. His thumb brushes hers, and he pulls her closer, lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss against the skin there. 

His eyes are closed, and he holds her there for a full ten seconds, doesn’t let go. Lydia swallows audibly, bites her lip and lets him finish. 

When he releases her, his eyes open, and he raises them to meet her stare. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and there isn’t any need to clarify what he’s referring to.

Lydia closes her eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath. She blinks rapidly, looks at him.  She nods wordlessly.

They stare at each other for a moment, and there’s _something_ there. Something in that moment. All the animosity and tension just seems to evaporate, like it was never there to begin with.

Lydia nods again, turns to leave. She can feel the weight of Derek’s gaze as he watches her go, but she doesn’t look back.

She opens the door, pauses to reach up and touch the brass knocker on the outside surface. “I’m sure it was expensive,” she says, just loud enough so he can hear her. She chews on her lip, waits to see if he responds. He doesn’t. She continues, “I know you don’t want my advice, but I think you should talk to him. It would do you both a lot of good.” She drops her hand to the doorknob, steps over the line to the outside. “It’ll be good for all of us. For the pack.”

She closes the door.

 

**XIII.**

It’s Monday afternoon, and Isaac is standing in the last shower stall of the empty locker room, shivering under the cool stream of crystal clear water as it cascades over his body.

He winces, looks down to touch the bruise creating a purple stain against the pale skin covering his ribcage. He sniffs slightly, feeling a sting of pain in his sore nose. The water keeps flowing, and he takes the bar of soap from its shelf and wipes away all the dirt and grass and grime, watches it pool in the drain and disappear. 

Every time he thinks it can’t get any worse, it does. Or at least, it seems to. It hurts worse. Every day, he wakes up and dreads going to school, feels a wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach, thinks about all of the ways he’s going to have to conceal his wounds, hide his scars and pain. And then, later, the sick feeling gets worse when he remembers he has to go home at the end of the day. That it has to happen all over again.

He steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist. Noticing something out of the corner of his eye, he glances up and yelps, jerks away.

“Shit!” he gasps, clutching a hand to his chest. “You scared the hell out of me...”

Stiles is sitting there on the bench at the end of the row of lockers, expression somber. “Sorry,” he says sincerely, and Isaac doesn’t miss the way his eyes glance down at his bruises. “I wanted to talk to you for a second.”

Isaac shrugs, grips his towel a little more tightly, brushes his bangs out of his face. “What about?” He pauses, bites his lip. “Not about...this isn’t about the same stuff as the other day, right? Because I don’t want to-”

“I have something for you,” Stiles interrupts, reaching behind his back to produce a brown paper bag. He slides it slowly across the bench, pushes it towards Isaac, never taking his eyes off the other boy’s.

Isaac looks at the bag warily, reaches down to take it. “What’s this?”

“For you,” Stiles offers vaguely.

Isaac opens it. He gasps, face paling. He shuts it quickly, puts it down on the bench. “Are you _insane_?” he whispers, eyes wide, frantic. “You can’t bring that to school!”

Stiles stands, dusts off his pants, looking thoroughly unrepentant. “I promised you I wouldn’t tell my dad anything,” he says calmly. “But I’m not going to sit around and do nothing.” He points at the bag. “So if you don’t want me to talk, you’ll take that and hold onto it. Just in case.”

“I’m not...I can’t...” Isaac swallows nervously, looks around the room. “I’m not going to...you know. I can’t.”

“I hope you don’t have to,” Stiles replies, and his tone is gentle, sad. “I really, really don’t. But I don’t want to open up the paper one day and see your name in the obituary column.” He bends down to unzip his backpack, rips out a piece of paper and starts scribbling something. “If something happens,” he says slowly, “and you _do_ have to...use it...” He passes the paper over. “This is my number. Don’t call the cops. Call me. I can help you.”

Isaac takes the paper, fingers trembling. “Why are you doing this?” he asks shakily.

Stiles hesitates, pulls the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. “Because someone has to.”

And then he leaves without another word.

Isaac leans up against the lockers, slides down the floor, paper clutched tightly in his hand. He looks at the brown bag sitting innocently on the bench, swallows. His hand tightens.

 

**XIV.**

Scott waves as Stiles heads in his direction across the parking lot.

Stiles frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Pack meeting, remember?” Scott replies. “We decided to ride together? Ringing any bells?”

Stiles nods, rubs his forehead as he moves around to the driver’s side to unlock the Jeep. “Right, right. Sorry, I forgot.”

They clamber inside, and Stiles turns on the engine, lets the air conditioner turn on full blast. Scott gives him a weird look. “So what took you so long? Who were you talking to?”

Stiles pulls the car into reverse, checks his rearview mirror. “Isaac.”

Scott lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. After a minute, he says, “He okay?”

Stiles bites his lip, pulls out of the parking lot. “He is now. Hopefully.”

He reaches over to the CD player and presses play:

_Seventeen seconds and I'm over it_

_Ready for the disconnect_

_Putting on a brave face_

_Trying not to listen_

_To the voices in the back of my head..._  


	6. the weekend

**I.**

The electric whine of the wood-chipper ups in pitch as Derek feeds the log into the spinning blades, sawdust flying up to cloud in the lenses of his goggles.

The sun blazes hot above, shining in through the rafters of the thick, smudged panes of green-tinted glass layered together with the red shingles of the factory roof. The lumber yard is alive with noise; loud banging and clanging, metal screeching and timber tumbling down to land heavily on the line in random array. Derek’s white t-shirt sticks to his skin, sweat bleeding through the fabric under his arms and down at the base of his back. He grunts, squats down to flip the switch and stop the conveyer belt, takes a moment to wipe his brow, steady himself. He stretches his arms, looks around.

All of the other workers are gathered together under the gazebo by the main building, hardhats set aside in a line on the bench as they lean up against the support beams and laugh at one another’s jokes while they eat. Derek’s the only one left out on the yard.

He sniffs, breathes in the scent of wood and oil and hot metal, and he flips the switch again, grasps hold of the next log with black gloved hands and guides it carefully into the circular saw. 

“Hale!” the foreman calls, and Derek looks up as the man waddles over, clipboard in hand. “What did I say about operating the machinery during lunch hour?”

Derek stops the machine again, waits for the whirring to die down before responding. “You said I wouldn’t get paid extra for working through break,” he deadpans. “I remember, sir. I just wasn’t hungry.”

The foreman gives him a contemplative once-over, peering through his goggles with beady eyes, beads of sweat shimmering in his short-cropped hair as he breathes heavily in the heat. “Well there aren’t any official rules about working the wood-chipper on you own, but I wouldn’t say it’s encouraged, exactly. I’d prefer it if you’d wait for the fellas to finish up, rejoin you. Just for safety’s sake, yeah?”

“You’re the boss,” Derek replies, steps away from the conveyer belt, starts removing his gloves.

“I’m not forcing you to interact with the guys if you'd rather keep to yourself,” the foreman continues, voice layered with the sort of phony patience that seems to come naturally to men in his position of authority. “I’ve been on the job long enough to know that some folks just want to clock in, clock out, do the job and mind their own business. I get that, son. But I’d sure feel a lot better about it if you’d at least take the break to, I dunno, stretch your legs or something. Drink some water, get some food on your stomach. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

“Understood,” Derek says, nods at him. He turns away without waiting to confirm that the conversation’s over, walks across the yard away from the belt and the crane and the saws, over to the shade of the trucks at the end of the lot.

Standing in the coolness of the shadows, he wa tches as the foreman bumbles over to the white office building, quietly observes the workers gathered in the gazebo. His eyes glow softly in the semi-darkness.

 

**II.**

****

Jackson’s finishing up a phone order for more filing paper, the low sounds of customers bustling about in the store serving as background noise. The electric buzzes of the copy machines and laminators and printers all blending together in beeps and hums. The doorbell intones above everything else, and he looks up, perking up at the sight of familiar faces.

“Check _you_ out!” Allison croons teasingly, holding the door for Lydia. The two of them step up to the register, identical grins stretched across their faces.

Lydia whistles, mouth curled up at the side. “Adorable, isn’t he?”

Jackson glances over his shoulder to check for customers, raises his hand to flip them both off. He’s smiling, though. “Shut up,” he says. “It’s standard uniform.”

The girls lean up against the register, take in his white polo and khaki pants, embroidered name tag on his chest, black laced shoes. “Standard or not, you look like a raging tool,” Lydia snarks. “I love it.”

“What are you doing at the register, though?” Allison asks, leaning over the counter to steal a mint out of the bowl by the computer screen. “I thought you said you were doing customer service?”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “I am,” he grumbles. “Just not today. We’re still in the middle of hiring people, and our daytime cashier called in sick. So Sheila’s got me doing checkout.”

Lydia glances over through the window of the manager’s office, observes the dark-haired woman in the the grey suit seated at the desk with a stack of files sprawled out in front of her. “Your boss?”

“For now.” Jackson nods. “She’s not too awful, I guess. A little uptight.”

“Bosses tend to be,” Allison garbles cheerily around a mouthful of peppermint. She looks around the store, eyes narrowed, quietly observing. “It’s really nice, Jackson.”

“It is,” Lydia agrees, nodding. She smiles at Jackson. “I thought it was a strange idea when you told me, but it really turned out well.” She glances down the isle at a man and woman grabbing a pair of plastic bins off a high shelf. “And business seems to be going well, especially for the second week.”

Jackson flicks a ball of dust off the counter, smiles back at her. “Well, it’s really my dad’s thing, and Derek helped with the investment, so I shouldn’t take all the credit.” He shrugs, mouth twisting up in a smug grin. “But I will anyway.”

Lydia mock-punches him in the shoulder, and Allison just laughs.

The doorbell buzzes, and the three of them look up. A blonde woman walks in, steps right up to the cash register. “Excuse me,” she asks, “I have some flyers I’d like laminated. Could you show me how to work the machine?”

Jackson’s eyes discreetly flicker up and down the length of her body, and his mouth widens into a superficially charming smile. “Of course, ma’am. Right this way.” He steps around the register, smirking at the girls as he passes. “Sorry, ladies. Duty calls.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Dumbass,” she mutters, shaking her head, bumping her shoulder playfully into Allison’s.

 

**III.**

****

The house is eerily quiet when Isaac steps in out of the afternoon heat. His body goes rigid, brain screaming warnings at him as he walks into the kitchen, slow and cautious.

His fears, however, are alleviated by the sight of his father lying asleep in the armchair in the living, mouth hanging open slightly, drool trailing down his chin. The stench of stale beer permeates the air, and Isaac cringes at the smell as he sets his backpack down by the table, moves quietly over to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of water. He drains the cup in a few quick gulps, sets it down on the counter with a dull clunk.

As he opens the door to his bedroom, a thin ray of light shines in through the blinds and casts a golden beam in a diagonal line across his bedspread. Right in the center of the light, he can see a faded splotch of blood on the comforter, dark brown now instead of red. 

He remembers that night well: coming home after hours because he got held up in line at the grocery store, greeted as he stepped through the door by a knee to the groin, a fist to the side of his head. His father doesn’t usually go for the face, but he had that night, and he’d left a long, dark gash right below Isaac’s left eyebrow. Hence the stain on the bed.

Thinking over it now, Isaac can remember all of the tales of damage: the dent in his wall, the broken clock lying in pieces in his closet beneath the slanted hanging rod, the grey t-shirt in his chest of drawers with the tear down the back. There’s a story behind every broken piece of his life, and the memories are all strung together in his mind like a home movie on repeat. And when he gets to reminiscing, he can’t quite stop the tide of pain.

He sits down heavily on the bed, fists his hand in his hair and closes his eyes, tries to think about something else.

Even with the bedroom door shut, he can hear the sound of his father’s snoring if he listens hard enough. The noise slips in under the crack at the bottom of the wooden panel, and Isaac shudders at the raspy whistle of it. 

He lies back with a sigh, kicks his shoes off as he situates himself, head sinking slowly into the pillow. Underneath his back, he can feel the bulge of the gun in the paper bag, tucked between the bed frame and the mattress. As thick as the mattress is, he imagines that he can feel the pressure of the lump pressing into his spine as he breathes in and out, hands folded together on his stomach.

The ceiling fan spins above him, humming softly. His eyes follow the rotating blades as they whir in constant circular motion.

A particularly loud snore from the living room cuts through his haze of thought, and he screws his eyes shut, hands clenching and fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He grits his teeth together, forces the rapid beating of his heart to slow until he’s breathing in steady rhythm.

It would be so easy right now, with his father asleep and unaware. The thought sends a rush of adrenaline spiking straight to his heart, fear and anxiety pumping through his veins. He shudders, eyes still closed, visualizing how it would be. Imagining the sense of relief he would feel once the deed had been done.

His hand actually strays away from his heart, slides over to the edge of the bed, like it’s going to make a move on its own willpower. Unbidden, the image springs to his mind: his father slumped over in the armchair, hole blasted through the center of his forehead, blood and grime and brain matter splattered all over the wall, dripping down to pool in the cracks of the floorboards.

Isaac swallows, feels bile rise up in his throat, and he withdraws his hand. He moves to sit, dangles his feet over the edge of the mattress and buries his face in his hands, quietly shivering.

And the snoring seems louder than ever.

He’s right on the verge of a total breakdown, tears stinging his eyes, hands shaking as his fingers run across his scalp. And then the idea pops into his mind, out of the blue.

He pauses, lowers his hands, expression softening into silent contemplation, musing. He licks his dry lips, staring at his reflection in the mirror by his closet door, examining the bruise poking out from under the collar of his shirt.

He tilts his head to the side, blinks.

“Hmm,” he mutters, eyebrows knitting together.

 

**IV.**

“I have a ladder, you know,” Derek mutters, torn between amusement and annoyance as he watches the boys struggle with the chandelier.

“You couldn’t have mentioned this before?” Scott grunts, wincing as he struggles to support Stiles’ weight on his shoulders.

Stiles ignores them both, tongue caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration as he twists the screwdriver, locking in the last couple of nails. “Almost got it, dude. Don’t drop me now...”

Scott makes a discontented sound, but he grips Stiles’ thighs tighter, presses up on his toes to allow the other boy greater proximity to the ceiling. Derek just shakes his head, standing by and holding the chair steady, making sure Scott doesn’t fall. “How much did that thing cost?” he asks. “I told you not to buy me anything expensive.”

“Didn’t cost a thing,” Stiles replies cheerfully, reaching down to pluck another nail out of his back pants pocket. 

“We found it at the junkyard,” Scott groans, beads of perspiration starting to drip down his sideburns. “It’s in good condition as far as we can tell. No idea why anybody would throw it away.” His knees buckle slightly. “Jesus, Stiles...hurry up with that, will you?”

Stiles pats his head mockingly, stretches taller to finish with the final screw. “Aren’t you werewolves supposed to be super strong? I’m not that heavy.” He cranes his neck, twists the screwdriver with a satisfied grunt. “And....got it!”

Scott sighs in relief, immediately stepping down from the chair. Stiles flails, wobbling backwards from his perch on Scott’s shoulders, and Derek instinctively reaches out to stop his fall, hooks his hands underneath the boy’s arms and gently deposits him on the ground.

“Sorry,” Scott offers, squatting down and rubbing at the back of his neck. Stiles waves him off.

“It’s all good.”

He takes a step back and surveys their work, places his hands on his hips. Scott stands, and he and Derek look up as well, heads tilted to the side, watching the light from the window reflecting rainbow patterns through the chandelier’s glass prisms.

“Dude...” Scott murmurs, eyes widening. He looks at Derek, at Stiles. “We’re _done_...”

Stiles’ eyebrows lift, and he looks around, stares at the finished wallpaper, the new carpet and refurbished staircase out in the foyer. “Shit, you’re right,” he says, somewhat awestruck.

He and Scott stare at each other for a minute, slow smiles spreading across their faces. Scott lets out a breathless little laugh, an expression of pleased accomplishment settling in place. Stiles raises his hand, and Scott lifts his to join his friend’s in a high five. 

They both turn to Derek, grinning like idiots. Derek shakes his head, but his mouth is twitching, barely restraining his own satisfaction. “Thanks for the help,” he says, sounding so uncharacteristically sincere, it’s eerie. “I mean it, guys. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You mean you _wouldn’t_ have done it without us,” Stiles corrects, and Scott snorts, bobbing his head in agreement.

“Yeah, man. You were totally content with the haunted mansion look. We had to twist your arm, remember?” He dusts off his hands, arches his back to crack his spine. “Well,” he yawns, “I think I’m gonna head home.” He starts for the door. “Pack meeting Saturday, right?”

Derek nods for a moment, then pauses, shakes his head. “No, actually. You all should take the weekend off. Enjoy yourselves.” He steps away from the table, casts another glance at the chandelier above the long table. “Get the word out to everybody, yeah?”

Scott shrugs, twists the doorknob. “Sure, alright.”

“Oh, and Scott...” Derek turns, looks at him seriously. He bites his lip, thinks for a second. “Tell Allison she can come. To next week’s meeting.”

Scott blinks, surprised, then perks up, a gleeful grin replacing his look of bemusement. He raises two fingers to his forehead in a goofy attempt at a salute, steps outside and shuts the door behind him.

Stiles snorts, folds his arms across his chest. 

Derek turns away from the door, stepping slowly into the foyer to examine the interior of the house. The smell of fresh paint isn’t quite as strong anymore, but everything still looks and feels brand new. It’s eerie to observe; they’d made no effort to try and recreate the house as it had once been. Indeed, apart from the infrastructure of the building itself, the place looks like an entirely different home. A new home.

There must be something off in his expression because when Stiles turns to look at him, the boy’s smile slips away, brow furrowing in concern. “You okay?” he asks.

Several months ago, a question like that would have elicited a simple grunt in response, or an idle threat, maybe a growl. Now, Derek simply says, “Yeah. Just thinking, that’s all.”

Stiles nods absently, still looking at him, expression curiously unreadable. After a minute or so, he says, “It’ll be different once you’ve been living in it for a while.” He gestures at the mostly empty walls. “We’ll take pictures, you know? Of us.” He coughs awkwardly. “The pack, I mean.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “You can fill this place with new memories. Different memories. And it won’t be so bad.”

Derek’s not sure what to say to that. So he just jerks his head in a vague imitation of a nod, says, “Hmm.”

A bird chirps outside. The sun is begging to set, and the afternoon light is warm through the windows, pleasant, not too hot. Derek shifts on the floorboards, detachedly noting that they don’t squeak anymore.

“That’s what we did,” Stiles continues, speaking more to himself than to Derek at this point. “My dad and I. There was a long time when I couldn’t stand to be in my own house for very long because there were so many pictures of my mom plastered up everywhere.” He shrugs, staring determinedly at the empty walls instead of at Derek. “It sort of drove me mad for a while, I think.” He scratches his chin, expression distant. “Anyway, my dad eventually decided to do something about it, decided to try and move on as best he could. So, you know, he spent time with me whenever he could, whenever he didn’t have work and I was free. He still does. And we take pictures of our trips together, of the two of us, or of me and Scott hanging out. Stuff like that.” He turns to look at Derek now, mouth drawn into a thing line, curling up at the sides in a slight smile. “And we put up those pictures in our house. So, yeah. Different memories.”

Derek looks at him oddly, silent throughout the kid’s entire speech. After it’s clear Stiles is finished talking, he asks, “And the pictures of your mother? Did you get rid of them?”

Stiles takes a slow, shuddering breath. He shakes his head. “No, we just moved them around a bit. Put a lot of them together, so we can look at them when we want to, but also avoid them when we don’t. Does that make sense?”

Derek looks down at the ground, frowns slightly. “Yeah. I get it.”

They’re silent then, standing in the clean smelling space and observing their handiwork. A particularly loud birdcall just outside the window startles them out of their reverie, and Stiles shakes himself off, forces a broad smile. 

“I should probably head out, too,” he says. He edges towards the door, lifts his hand in an awkward half-wave. “So, I’ll see you next week? Or, you know, whenever before then.”

Derek doesn’t turn to watch him leave, just stares at a dark groove on the sleek banister of the staircase. “Mm-hmm,” he says.

He hears the sound of Stiles’ shoes on the mat by the door, shifting back and forth for a moment. And then the kid is gone, door clicking shut behind him.

His scent disappears with him, and Derek feels a pang of loss. He closes his eyes, sucks on the inside of his cheek.

So, yeah. Lydia’s right. This needs to be dealt with.

 

**V.**

****

Chris sighs, pleased, as the shower nozzle kicks on with a start, spraying hot water down to wipe the dirt from his body. It’s just one of those daily rituals he always finds himself looking forward to, like his morning cup of coffee or his evening jog around the neighborhood circle. 

Standing under the downpour, he cleans himself with the bar of soap, listening absently to the sound of Victoria’s voice outside the bathroom door. She’s on the phone, talking just loud enough so he can make out the muffled murmur of her barely concealed agitation. There’s a squeaking noise, too; her pink fuzzy slippers on the kitchen floor, he imagines.

The talking stops after a few minutes, and Chris hears the glass door slam as his wife exits out the back door to the porch. 

He finishes up with his shower, rubs his hair dry in front of the fogged-up mirror and wraps the white towel around his waist. He’s still dripping a bit when he steps out into the hall, but it’s no matter.

The house is deafeningly quiet, and Chris’ skin breaks out in goosebumps as he passes under the vent and the air conditioner kicks in. He shivers briefly, clutches the towel tighter around himself, frowning as he patters into the kitchen. A tiny orange glow catches his eye, and he looks out through the window to see Victoria leaning against the rail of the porch, gazing over the dark backyard lawn with a cigarette between her lips. She takes another puff, and the lighted tip glows brighter for a split second.

Chris turns away, returns to the master bedroom. Passing the staircase, he remembers Allison saying that she’ll be home late tonight. Out with friends, she said. 

With Scott, she meant, though Chris didn’t decide to question her.

He dresses, rubbing his still damp hair, puts on a pair of blue jogging shorts and a white t-shirt for bed.

He steps back out into the living room, returns to the kitchen to step outside.

“I thought you’d quit,” he says without judgment, gestures at the cigarette caught between Victoria’s fingers.

She ignores the remark, takes another puff and puts the thing out. “Your father called,” she says, blowing the sparks off the rail and out into the dirt around the rosebushes. “We had a nice, long conversation.”

Chris sighs, leans up against the railing beside her. He clasps his hands together, rests his chin on his knuckles, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Is he coming to visit?”

Victoria shakes her head, raps her fingernails in a random pattern. “No. He actually requested that _you_ come up to see _him_. He’s back in the area.”

“At the compound?” Chris asks, mildly surprised. He sucks in his lower lip, thinks for a minute, rubbing his hands together. “Did he say what this is about?”

Victoria gives him a meaningful look. “No.” She adjusts the neckline of her nightgown, tucks one foot behind the other, rubs her leg with the back of her slipper. “And as you’re well aware, that man tends to say what’s on his mind, no hesitation. No filter. So if he’s being cryptic, you can damn well be sure there’s something to worry about.”

Chris ducks his head, stairs at the bushes below. “Shit,” he mutters.

The wind is low and soft, and it rustles in the trees over the fence. The crescent moon shines above in the cloudless sky.

“You need to handle this,” Victoria says after a minute or so. Without looking at him, she turns away, walks back to the house. At the door, she adds, “Either we’re raising our daughter in this life or we’re not. There’s no middle ground.” She looks over her shoulder, fixes him with a steely gaze. “One way or the other. Deal with this, sweetheart.”

And then she steps inside, closes the glass behind her.

Chris looks up at the moon. He doesn’t go back inside until all of the houselights have been turned off.

 

**VI.**

Officer Martinez sits at the table in the Stilinski kitchen, decked out in civilian garb, sipping at his glass of sweet tea while the sheriff paces slowly up and down the length of the counter.

“Speaking on a personal level, sir,” he says, “it seems pretty clear to me that there’s something off about them. Both of them. The woman, too.” He glances down at his notes. “Victoria. Definitely not on the up and up.” He shrugs. “But from a legal standpoint, there’s just not enough evidence to warrant any sort of search. And while I don’t mind the stakeout detail, we’ve been at it for a couple of weeks now, and we’ve come up with zilch. Literally nothing. Whatever’s going on in that house, they’re keeping it under wraps.”

“Or they’re onto us,” the sheriff muses, stroking his chin, expression contemplative. “He seemed a bit rattled after my interview with him. Chances are good he’s spooked. Probably playing his cards closer to his chest than he would under normal circumstances.”

Martinez frowns, sets his glass down. “You interviewed the target?” he asks. “When? And what about?”

The sheriff opens his mouth, hesitates. He stops pacing, leans back against the sink. “Mm...” he hums meaninglessly.

Martinez observes him for a minute, sighs. “Sir, you’re still my boss. I’m not questioning your judgment. But I feel obligated to advise you...someone in the department is going to catch on to our activities. And when they do, you can bet that the higher ups are going to start asking questions.” He grimaces. “Now I’m not... _saying_ anything, per se. But still, if perchance, you are conducting an investigation without authorization-”

“I’d keep such speculations to myself if I were you, officer,” the sheriff interrupts, not coldly. His expression is blank, stern. “For your own protection,” he adds quietly. 

“I understand, sir,” Martinez murmurs. He nods absently. “Plausible deniability...”

The sheriff sighs, rubs his face with his palms. “If and when the county commission needs to be involved, I’ll handle the fallout myself. For now, just stay on your target, and-”

The front door opens and closes with a snap, and the sheriff stops talking, pauses as Stiles walks into the room, backpack slung over one shoulder.

The boy blinks, looks between the two men. He waves awkwardly. “Er, hi.” He looks at his father. “Umm, I’m gonna go upstairs, Dad. Chem lab tomorrow, so I should probably get to bed early.”

The sheriff nods, smiles slightly. “Yeah alright, kiddo. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Stiles bobs his head, nods in parting to Martinez. “Goodnight, sir.”

Martinez raises his glass, flashes him a friendly smile. “Good to see you, Stiles.”

They wait for the kid’s footsteps to fade on the staircase, for the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut. The sheriff turns back to the table, presses his hands flat against the surface, thinking.

“I suppose setting up a wiretap would be crossing the line, wouldn’t it?” he muses aloud.

“I would concur with that conclusion,” Martinez replies calmly.

The sheriff sits down across from him, props his elbows up on the table. He scratches his chin. “Then I guess we keep at it,” he murmurs. “Switch out the cars every other day for the night-watch. That might help with the suspicion.” He rubs his palms together, raises his eyes to meet the officer’s. “Everybody fucks up sooner or later. We just have to be patient.”

 

**VII.**

****

The school is abuzz with that irreplaceable Friday feeling of pre-weekend anticipation. Students shift restlessly in their seats during classes. The clocks seem to tick louder, slower.

Over the past month or so, the pack, along with Danny, has taken to eating lunch together, all seated around the circular table in the middle of the cafeteria. It’s baffling to everyone else, mostly because there is no readily available explanation for why Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski are suddenly buddy-buddy with Jackson Whittemore. But if a few quizzical glances and raised eyebrows are directed at their mealtime congregation, no one brings it up to their faces. Even Danny has simply accepted the new seating arrangements with little more than a brief expression of detached bafflement.

“I can’t wait for the weekend,” Jackson mutters around a mouthful of sandwich. He nudges Lydia in the ribs, ignores her reproachful glare. “Wanna catch a movie? There’s some good stuff out now.”

Lydia opens her mouth, closes it. She shrugs, glances across the table at Allison. “Sure. Why don’t you and Scott come with? It’ll be like another double date, almost. Since the last one went so splendidly.”

Allison hums agreeably, and Jackson makes a quiet noise of discontent, avoiding Scott’s gaze.

Stiles looks up from his lunch, frowns. “Wait. You two are dating again?” he asks, motioning between Jackson and Lydia. “Since when?”

Jackson opens his mouth, no doubt to snap out some snarky retort, but Danny beats him to the punch. “Well, ‘dating’ might not be the most accurate terminology,” he says delicately, mouth curling in amusement at Jackson’s scowl and Lydia’s blush. Stiles coughs uncomfortably, looking back down at his food.

“What movie do you guys want to see?” Scott pipes up, changing the subject.

Lydia makes a noncommittal sound. “I dunno. As long as it’s a matinee showing, I don’t really care. I’m kind of scarce for cash right now.”

Stiles chews on his apple, zones out of the conversation. His brow furrows, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as Isaac walks up and taps Jackson on the shoulder.

Jackson turns, raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah?”

Isaac shifts slightly, adjusts the strap of his backpack. “Hey.” He scratches the back of his head, clearly uncomfortable. “Could I talk to you about something for a minute? In private?”

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Jackson gives a sort of half-shrug, nudges Danny to move so he can get out of the bench.

Stiles watches as the two boys walk over a short distance, talking in low voices.

“My parents won’t be home tomorrow night,” Allison murmurs to Scott, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiles at him. “You can come over, if you like.”

Scott flushes slightly, glances over at Lydia and Danny, both of whom are carefully looking elsewhere, barely concealed smirks twisting at the edges of their lips. “Umm...yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Stiles pokes Scott in the shoulder, still staring at Jackson and Isaac. “Hey,” he hisses. “Scott. Tell me what they’re talking about. Listen in for a sec.”

“What?” Scott gives him an odd look. “No. Why?”

Stiles pokes him again, harder. “Just for a second.”

Scott rolls his eyes, cocks his head. Allison leans across the table, talking quietly with Lydia, whispered exchange quickly devolving into giggles. Danny just picks at the hem of his collar, bored.

After a minute, Scott leans away, returns to open up his fruit cup. “Nothing relevant to you, dude,” he says, prompted by Stiles impatient glare. “Just something about a video camera.”

Stiles slumps in his chair, bemused. Jackson walks back over and plops down on the bench. “So,” he yawns, “what did I miss?”

 

**VIII.**

****

Stiles pulls the Jeep into park on the street in front of his house, steps around the side to pull his bag out of the backseat. He pauses, realizing Derek is standing in his driveway, leaning up against his black Camaro.

“Umm...dude? I know the charges got dropped and everything, but still, hanging out in front of the sheriff’s house might not be your best idea ever.”

Derek just glowers at him, looking curiously unnerved, almost nervous. “Get in the car,” he grits out.

Stiles stares. Blinks. “What?”

Derek reaches into his pocket and retrieves his keys, presses the unlock button and opens the driver’s side door. “Get in.”

Stiles makes a half-move towards the house, pauses - thinking better of it. “Why? What’s happened? What’s happening?” He pales, observes Derek’s scowl, his stiff demeanor. “Oh my God. Is this the part where you kill me? I thought we were getting along, almost! What did I do wrong? Just tell me, and I swear I won’t do it again. You don’t have to take me out in the woods and fucking whack me like I’m Adriana La Cerva!”

Derek frowns at him, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop making references I don’t understand. And you didn’t _do_ anything.” He motions forcefully at the car. “Come on. Just trust me.”

“Uh...” Stiles makes a sort of strangled noise, sighs. He rubs his temples. “Ugh. Okay. Just let me put my stuff inside, alright?”

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “Leave it. You can deal with it later.” He moves forward suddenly, grabs Stiles by the arm and guides him around to the passenger’s side. “Get in.”

“Jesus, alright!” Stiles steps inside, sits down with a huff. He scowls as Derek moves around the front and hops in from the driver’s side. “Fuck, you’re grumpy today. What crawled up your-”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, shoots him a stern glare.

Stiles raises his palms in surrender. “Shutting up,” he mutters, ducking his head. He sulks silently as Derek pulls the car into reverse, rolls out onto the road. “Although can I just say how happy I am that we’ve suddenly reverted back to the scary wolf, terrified teenager dynamic? It’s really terrific, seriously.”

Derek snorts, and he doesn’t even bother to respond.

 

**IX.**

****

To Derek’s surprise, Stiles actually stays quiet for the first hour or so; just slumps in his seat and wedges his knees up against the dashboard, humming a tuneless little melody and looking out the window at the passing fields and trees as they speed down the highway.

It’s not until the sun has started to settle down behind the horizon that the kid starts chattering away again.

“So, um. Yeah,” he says, glancing over at Derek, wary. “It’s kinda getting late now, and just out of curiosity, if my dad calls, should I go ahead and tell him that I’ve been kidnapped by a former murder suspect?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m not kidnapping you.”

Stiles makes a disbelieving noise, lower lip curling out in a pout. “Well then. Mind telling me where the hell we’re going?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away, hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, steely glare fixed straight ahead. Stiles stares at him for a while, eventually gives up and looks away. Derek grits his teeth. “The beach,” he says. “We’re going to the beach. For the weekend.”

Dropping his knees away from the dash, Stiles straightens in his chair, jaw hanging open, baffled. “What?” he deadpans. “I don’t...you...I...” He cuts off, turns to look out the window again. “You know what, forget it. I don’t even want to know. Probably some super secret werewolf business, right?” He squirms underneath the restraints of the seatbelt, twists himself so he’s lying on his side, yawns. “I’ve had a long day, okay? So I’m just gonna go ahead and take a nap. Wake me when we get there.”

He’s asleep within minutes, and as the sun slips down behind the trees, Derek takes to stealing furtive glances at the boy, watches the rise and fall of his chest in the dark, illuminated by the streetlights passing overhead.

 

**X.**

They arrive at the hotel around 8:30. Stiles wakens as the car pulls to a stop, roused from slumber by Derek jostling his shoulder.

“Up!” he grumbles tiredly. “I’m up...”

The rolling of the waves crashing up on the shore echoes over the squawking of the seagulls taking flight from the rooftop of the nearby cafe. Stiles steps groggily out of the car, toes curling in his sandals as grains of sand stick to the bottoms of his feet. He shivers in the ocean breeze, steps around to join Derek at the back of the car.

“I packed you some stuff,” Derek says lightly, opening up the trunk and pushing a small black bag into Stiles’ chest. “I couldn’t find your toothbrush, but I think they give away complimentary toiletries here, so...”

Stiles opens the bag, stares inside at his folded up clothes, swimsuit, bottle of Adderall. “You creeper,” he mutters, shaking his head. But he sounds more fond than angry, so Derek counts that as a win. “What am I supposed to tell my dad? You know he’s going to freak out, right?”

Derek shakes his head. “I had Scott send him a text saying you were spending the weekend with him and Allison.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, doesn’t comment. He pulls the strap of the bag over his shoulder, across his chest. He looks up at the hotel, at the moon poking out over the rooftop. “I’m hungry,” he announces, looks at Derek pointedly. “You should fix that.”

“I think we can handle that,” Derek replies, dry as sandpaper.

There’s a sort of buffet-style diner in the hotel lobby, fashioned after 1950s burger joints with its red-and-white checkered tiling and black booths and stools at the long counter. Stiles hops up to sit at the bar and orders a chocolate shake while Derek checks in at the front desk. He swivels back and forth on his stool, hums to himself and sips through the straw noisily.

“You should get one of these,” he says when Derek comes over to sit by him. “They’re really good.”

“Nutritious dinner,” Derek snarks, but he orders one anyway.

Stiles grins. “We’re on vacation! We don’t have to be healthy.” His smile fades slightly, replaced by doubt and wariness. “We _are_ on vacation, yes? That’s what this is? Or was I actually right about the top secret werewolf stuff?”

Derek gives him a look, most likely annoyed by his raised voice, glances around to make sure they’re alone. “Yes,” he grumbles. “We’re on vacation.”

“Oh. Good.” Stiles takes another noisy sip, wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Because you totally could have just _said_ that, you know. Like, ‘Hey, Stiles. Wanna go to the beach with me? Bet it would be fun.’ Just like that.”

Derek huffs, drinks silently from his glass.

They order some real food after they’re finished, scarf it down quickly, ignoring the curious stares of the man behind the counter at the bar. They lift their bags and go down the hall, step into the elevator and press the button for the sixth floor.

Derek stands still, watches the numbers go up on the counter, left foot tapping impatiently. Stiles rocks back and forth, hums along with the inane music until Derek glares at him.

The doors open with a ding, and Derek steps out, Stiles following quickly behind. The hallway seems curiously narrow, lit by small, rotund lanterns attached to the walls in between each grouping of doors. The dusty carpet is red and yellow, diagonal diamond patterns stretching into infinity. Derek fishes around in his jeans pocket, hefting his bag up higher on his shoulder. He hands a room key over to Stiles.

“You’re here,” he says simply, stopping in front of a door marked 645. He points down the hall. “I’m 627. You have my number if you need anything. Just knock on my door if I don’t answer my phone.”

Stiles blinks at him, surprised. “Oh.” He tucks one leg behind the other, stands at an awkward angle, sucks on the inside of his cheek. “So...we’re in separate rooms?”

Derek’s face remains expressionless. “Hence the separate room keys,” he answers tonelessly.

“Alright then.” Stiles lifts his hand in a stilted wave. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Uh, sleep tight? Don’t let the bedbugs-”

“Shut up,” Derek cuts in, but Stiles thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile as the werewolf turns to walk down the hall.

Stiles watches him leave, stopping a door on the opposite end of the hallway just in front of the window by the door to the staircase. Derek’s face is darkened, cast half in shadow, half illuminated by the lantern light by the door. He slides the room key into place, opens the door when it beeps, closes it with a dull thunk.

The hallway is dead silent, and Stiles stands alone for a moment before turning to his own door, stepping inside.

It’s a single, one bed and one bathroom. No television. There’s an individual lamp on the table by the bed, and the golden tinted curtains are drawn closed around the window. Stiles feels a sudden rush of tiredness, even after his late afternoon nap, and he doesn’t even bother to get undressed before falling forward on the bedspread and allowing himself to slip into unconsciousness. 

 

**XI.**

He’s shaken awake yet again, eyes fluttering open immediately. Fully rested, he sits up, blinks away the sleep from his eyes. 

“Rise and shine,” Derek deadpans. He’s already ready for the day, dark green t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, black and purple swim trunks tied in the front with shoelace. He looks down at Stiles through the lenses of his sunglasses, head cocked to the side. The image is so weirdly domestic and commercial-worthy, Stiles almost laughs out loud.

“What time is it?” he asks, yawning. 

Derek nods at the alarm clock by the lamp on the table. “Just past 11:00. I let you sleep in.” He lifts his foot, nudges Stiles’ leg. “Come on. Let’s go to the beach.”

Stiles slides out of bed, stretches his arms behind his back. “This is so fucking weird, dude,” he mutters, runs his fingers through his short-cropped hair. He gestures vaguely at the door. “You go on. I’ll meet you in the lobby after I get dressed.”

He fishes his swimsuit out of his bag, waits for Derek to leave before pulling down his pants to change.

He trades out his dirty shirt for a bright yellow one with a picture of palm trees on the front. Fitting, he thinks.

Slipping on his sandals, he steps into the bathroom to wash his face, splashes the lukewarm water up to wet his skin and pats his cheeks dry with the soft, fuzzy towel hanging from silver rod by the door. He examines his reflection in the mirror, bites his lip.

He tries to force his face to rearrange its bemused frown into a look of calm relaxation. It mostly works, and goes back into the room, retrieves a beach towel from his bag and heads out to join Derek.

 

**XII.**

Stiles makes fast friends with a couple of young kids on the beach. The three of them sit  together in a circle, just out of reach of the waves rolling up the shoreline, filling their plastic buckets with sand and shaping elaborate castles with the wed muck.

The children’s mother seems relieved at the chance to enjoy herself, and she sits several yards away in a lawn chair, reading a book under the shade of a pink umbrella. She occasionally glances up when one of the kids giggles, smiles affectionately and returns to her reading.

“You should get in on this action!” Stiles calls to Derek, who’s standing down by the water’s edge, people-watching and soaking his feet in the ocean tide. “I bet you’ve never made a sandcastle before. Too playful for Your Royal Grouchiness, right?”

Derek shakes his head, smiling lightly, and he doesn’t move from his place. He glances over his shoulder every now and then to observe the three of them at play, but he mostly just stands there, staring out at the endless blue surface of the Pacific, wind blowing wrinkles in his shirt.

There is a gang of college guys playing volleyball up the way, shorts slung low on their hips and flapping around their thighs, skin bronzed and tan up their arms and backs, sunburned on the napes of their necks. They’re laughing easily at each other’s jokes and wolf-whistling appreciatively to the girls in bikinis passing by. Stiles wonders absently whether or not the pack will ever reach a point when they can all interact with that sort of relaxed demeanor. Between Jackson being _Jackson_ and Scott’s newfound confidence, not to mention Derek’s Alpha male aggressiveness, there’s certainly plenty of macho posturing to go around. 

Stiles thinks of Lydia, and of Allison, and he smiles to himself, dumping another bucked of wet sand on top of the mound. They’re a good influence on the rest of the group. And they know it, too. 

A gust of wind blows sand in his eyes, and he wipes it away, blinking just in time to see a huge wave come crashing down, sending frothy seawater up the shore to swipe away the castle. It crumbles to ruin, and the kids groan in disappointment.

“We were so close!” the boy pouts.

“Stupid water...” the girl agrees, crossing her arms and glaring at the receding waves.

Stiles just smiles, reaches over to pat her head. “I guess that means we have to start over,” he says cheerfully.

The kids cheer, and Stiles stands slowly to head down to the water’s edge, fill up another bucket. In the periphery of his vision, he can see Derek watching him, a small smile dancing in his eyes.

 

**XIII.**

****

They walk down the shore to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant tucked in between another hotel and the local car repair shop. It’s old as can be, lit only by natural sunlight from the windows, and the white paint on the concrete walls is starting to chip away, mostly concealed by various pictures of baseball players and surfers and scenic vistas.

Derek picks a little table for two in the back by the jukebox, out of the light. He sits in the corner, leaning away into the shadows, blinking at Stiles under heavy lids, legs crossed, arms propped up on the sides of his wicker chair. Stiles leans against the wall, flips through the menu.

He smiles at Derek after the waiter takes their order, props his elbows up on the table. “It’s nice here,” he says. “All of this time I’ve lived in California, and I can’t remember the last time I saw the ocean.”

Derek shrugs. “Your father’s busy.” He glances down at the menu, closes it delicately. “It’s been even longer for me. Unless you count the Atlantic. I saw plenty of that when I was living in New York.”

Stiles tilts his head to the side, lips pressed tightly together. He reaches up, smoothes out his left eyebrow. “What did you do out there? In New York, I mean. Not the ocean.”

“I know what you meant.” Derek pauses, smiles politely at the waiter as he returns with their drinks. He clears his throat. “Nothing much to speak of. The majority of it wouldn’t interest you, and the rest I’d rather not relive.”

“Hmm.” Stiles nods thoughtfully, takes his straw into his mouth, sucks up a sip of tea. He makes a face. “Needs more sugar,” he mutters, taking a pink packet from the little box at the table’s edge, rips it open and shakes it over the cup. He stirs with his straw, scans the wall behind Derek, examining the array of pictures. “How do you know what I would and wouldn’t be interested in?” he asks after a minute. “You can’t really know that.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Really? I like to think I know you pretty well at this point. As much as I know anybody.”

Stiles blinks, pauses in his stirring. “Oh.” He frowns slightly, pleasantly bemused. “That’s...huh. I wouldn’t have thought you felt that way.”

Derek frowns, too. He leans forward slightly, pushing back off the wall. “Why not?” he asks, lifting his cup to take a drink, not bothering with a straw.

Stiles makes a meaningless gesture, slanting his shoulders at an angle. “I dunno. I guess I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

“Mmm...” Derek’s frown deepens, and he lowers his cup, sets it down. “Knowing you and liking you are two different things,” he says. Then, after a slight hesitation, “And as for not liking you...”

He trails off. Stiles swallows, looks away. “Whatever they’re having smells good,” he says, changing the subject, nodding at a couple seated a few tables over.

Derek takes another drink, a longer swig. “Yeah,” he murmurs after a minute. “It does.”

The conversation peters off for a while, doesn’t pick back up until their food arrives.

“Do you suppose these are people the owners know?” Stiles asks, swallowing a mouthful of fish, wiping his lips with his napkin. He points at a picture behind Derek, one of a smiling family with surfboards tucked under their arms, huddled together in front of the ocean sunset.

“Does it matter?” Derek asks, though not rudely. His knife slices easily through the red meat on his plate, and he stares at Stiles curiously, chewing slowly as he brings his fork to his mouth for another bite.

Stiles huffs. “It doesn’t _matter_. It’s just a question.” He looks over his shoulder, scans the wall behind him. “It just makes you wonder, you know? Like, if it’s all just stock photography they found off the internet to try and give the place a certain look, or if it’s people they actually know. Real memories, I mean.”

Derek glances over Stiles’ shoulder, looks at a faded picture of a dark skinned woman sitting on the porch of a bamboo bungalow in some faraway country, looking out at the horizon at the beginnings of a monsoon in the mist above the green mountains. “Real would be my guess,” he says seriously, looks back down at his plate.

“I think so, too,” Stiles says thoughtfully, takes a piece of ice into his mouth, sucks it into the side of his cheek.

 

**XIV.**

“Scott keeps texting me,” he says later as they’re walking back along the shore to the hotel. “He probably thinks you’re torturing me. Like you’ve strung me up in your secret dungeon and suffocating me with a plastic bag while listening to Enya.”

Derek rolls his eyes, striding forward leisurely at Stiles’ side, hands tucked behind his back, rubbing his wrist. “Is that another pop culture reference?” he asks. “Because I think we’ve already established that I never know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Stiles shakes his head, snorts. “Seriously, dude. Do you, like, not watch any movies? Or TV, or anything?”

Derek looks at him, eyebrows lifting together. “Not really, no.”

“Tragic.” Stiles sighs dramatically, clucks his tongue. “Now that we’ve got your house all fixed up nice, I’m gonna start making you watch a whole shitload of stuff. And you’re going to love it.”

Derek groans, raises his hands to his face, rubs his eyes. “Jesus. You really are a kid, aren’t you?”

Stiles gives him a weird look. “Never said I wasn’t dude,” he says, leaning over to nudge Derek’s shoulder. He jumps away before Derek can push him back, jogs away a few feet, turning around to walk backwards. He grins. “Doesn’t mean I’m not a good conversation buddy! And it doesn’t make what I have to say any less interesting.” He shrugs. “I don’t think so at least.”

“Yeah, sure.” Derek tries to shove his hands in his pockets before remembering he’s wearing a swimsuit, settles for putting his hands behind his back again. He kicks up a gust of sand, watches it blow away in the wind.

The sun is setting, and the beach is starting to clear out. There’s a bonfire about a mile down the way, and when they listen closely, they can hear the sounds of the college kids from earlier chattering and listening to music. Stiles bends over to pick up a seashell, turns it over in his hand, blows away the dirt. 

“Thanks for the surprise vacation,” he says absently. “Not really sure what the point is, but still. It’s nice. So...yeah. Thanks.”

Derek grunts in lieu of _You’re Welcome_.

They stop at the automatic doors at the lobby entrance. Stiles gestures to the side of the building, says he’s going for a swim in the pool. Derek nods, says he’ll see him in the morning.

He rides the elevator up the sixth floor by himself, listens to the abrasive clang of the buzzer as the lift passes each landing. The hallway feels colder somehow, and his arms break out in little bumps as he walks by the air conditioner.

Stopping by the door to his room, he looks out the window by the staircase, draws the curtains back. The pool is visible down below, illuminated in the dark by the ethereal glow of the globelike lamps at the bottom of the basin. There are four elderly locals gathered together in the hot tub nearby, sitting together and sipping at margaritas. The pool itself is empty, apart from Stiles. 

The boy is swimming laps, back and forth in freestyle stroke, arms cutting sleek paths through the water, churning up white bubbles behind him as he glides across the surface. Even from this height, this distance, Derek can see the muscles moving in the kid’s back, can see the way his lips are stung red as he flips over at the edge to press off against the wall, mouth parted for a brief instant as he takes another breath.

Derek lets go of the curtain, steps away from the window. He takes a moment to close his eyes, bang his head gently against the door to his room, let out a quiet breath.

He goes inside, doesn’t bother to turn on the lamp. The only light in the darkness is the red glow of the alarm clock’s surface on the bedside table. He kicks off his sandals, peels of his shirt. Falling down on the mattress, he kicks the comforter off to the floor, pulls the sheets over himself and lies on his side. 

He stares at the red numbers on the clock, watches the dots blink together in slow tempo as he drifts away.

  


**XV.**

He’s not sure how long it’s been when his eyes come open again, blinking to awareness of their own volition.

The red blinking still shines in his face, but it’s no longer the alarm clock. The clock is gone, and the curtains are drawn back away from the window. The red light is coming from a distant radio tower some several miles away, far over the darkened houses below along the shore. The surface of the ocean seems curiously still, dark and blue and deep.

Derek frowns, rubs his head, standing up out of bed. He looks around and sees that the room is empty. All that’s left is the bed. The world is drained of sound.

His feet move beneath him, and though he doesn’t know where he’s going, he feels a strange sense of calm. Of resignation and acceptance.

He steps out through the door and onto the carpet. The hallway seems wider, bigger, and the diamond patterns beneath his feet are now a brilliant shade of red, stretching out into the darkness up ahead.

“Hello?” he calls, and looks up and down the length of the hall. No answer. He moves forward, reaches up to scratch his bare chest. The soles of his feet make a soft, scratchy sound as they slide on the carpeted floor.

He walks down to the elevator, stops by the silver doors. Sheriff Stilinski is standing there, waiting for him. He’s dressed in a red button-up suit with black pants, a little dark hat perched atop his head. 

Derek tilts his head to the side, frowns. “Are you here to arrest me?” he asks, genuinely curious.

The sheriff raises an eyebrow, presses a button by the elevator. The doors open. “That depends,” he says. “Do you think you deserve to be in prison?” Without waiting for an answer, he steps inside the elevator, stands by the array of buttons. He looks at Derek expectantly.

The doors stay open, and Derek looks around, frowns at the hallway behind him. It seems to have gotten smaller, tighter. After a moment’s hesitation, he joins the sheriff in the elevator, and the doors close behind him automatically.

“Where are we going?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his semi-nudity.

The sheriff’s face remains impassive. He reaches up, delicately adjusts the tilted hat atop his head. He says nothing.

The elevator moves silently downward, and Derek’s stomach flops. The air grows cold, and his teeth begin to chatter. The doors open.

Derek steps out alone, walks out into the lobby. The front desk is empty, no one in sight. Melancholy music emanates from the eating are across the way:

_When I was seventeen_

_It was a very good year_

_It was a very good year for small town girls_

_And soft summer nights_

_We'd hide from the lights_

_On the village green_

_When I was seventeen..._

“Oh, Frank,” a soft voice sighs.

Derek starts, turns to look over his shoulder. Laura is sitting on a bench back by the elevator, hands concealed by white gloves, legs covered by a long, blue-checkered skirt. She smiles at him, lifts a hand to waggle her fingers in a feminine wave.

“Laura...” Derek breathes, chest clenching tight. He swallows thickly, walks back towards her. Looking down, he sees that he’s dressed now, a black tuxedo with a white shirt underneath, squeaky clean shoes tied tight with dark laces.

“Hello, darling,” she says, still smiling. She pats the bench beside her, scoots over to make room for him. He sits down, stares at her in wonder. She looks up, head cocked slightly as the music drones on in the other room. “Remember Daddy’s old Sinatra records?” she asks, voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’d always turn them up loud when Mom was out of the house."

Derek barks out a nervous little breath, shaking his head disbelievingly. “And he had that stupid poster up in the library,” he murmurs, reaching out with shaking hands to touch his sister’s hair, tuck a flowing strand behind her ear. “The one with Sammy Davis, Jr.”

Laura nods, smiling wider. “Yes, that’s right.” Her hand moves over, rests on his knee. “That’s right, Derek.”

His throat feels tight, and tears spring to his eyes. “I miss you a lot,” he whispers.

Her smile turns sad. “Don’t think about that,” she says softly, pats his knee. “Think about the good times.”

He looks down at his lap. “I don’t know if I can.”

A horn honks outside, and the twin lights of an approaching car shine in through the front doors. Laura perks up, looks to the window. “You can,” she says confidently, withdraws her hand. “I know you can.” She stands up, dusting off her skirt. She steps forward and examines her reflection in the mirror on the wall. “That’s my ride, sweetie.” She looks over her shoulder, smiles at him. “How do I look?”

Derek takes a shuddering breath, wipes at his eyes, forces himself to smile. “You look great, sis,” he says. “You do.”

She lifts her hand to her mouth, gloved fingers resting for a moment against her lips. Never taking her eyes off his, she blows him a kiss, silent, sweet. And then she turns, high heels clicking on the tiled floor as she walks away.

Derek feels a twist in his gut, a rush of panic. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads.

“Don’t worry now,” she calls over her shoulder, not looking back. She pushes through the double doors, steps outside and disappears. Her voice resounds through the suddenly quiet space, echoing against the walls. “Don’t you fret. I’ll see you at the finish line.”

And then the lights go out, and Derek’s left in the dark. He stands up shakily, tries to feel his way along the wall, searching for an exit. 

The music has ceased and the only sound he can hear is the squeak of his shoes as he moves across the floor. “Hello?” he calls uncertainly. “Is there anybody out there?”

A light appears at the end of the corridor. He walks towards it, feeling a sensation of warmth, of confidence. The light grows brighter, and he closes his eyes, steps into the glow.

And now he’s in a subway station, standing by the empty tracks. He looks down and sees the his shoes are gone, a trail of black goo in the shape of paw prints trailing behind him.

“You think you can help me with this?” a voice calls, and he lifts his head to see Jackson standing on the opposite end of the tracks, holding up a length of brown rope. 

“What?” he asks dumbly.

Jackson shakes the rope, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “Could you help me?” he asks. “I’m having a little trouble tying it.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but a sudden movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns to see the rest of the pack standing at his side, all waiting in a line, staring down at the dark hole as the sound of the subway horn fills the room, reverberates off the walls.

_Train approaching_ , a mechanical female voice intones.

“That’s us,” Allison says cheerfully. She turns to Scott and holds out her hand. He takes it, and together, they lug their suitcases up onto the platform, preparing to board.

“Just on time,” Lydia says, lifting her own bag.

Derek feels his heart sink. “You’re leaving?” he asks, hating the tremor in his voice.

Lydia turns to her left, and now Jackson is standing at her side. The two of them exchange a knowing look, a quiet chuckle. Lydia shoots Derek a curious look. “Of course,” she says, like it’s obvious. “How could we not?”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. He just stands by helplessly, toes curling against the cold floor as the subway approaches and stops, screeching to a halt. The doors slide open. 

“Well, this is it,” Scott says, beaming. He and Allison step inside, and Lydia follows behind, tugging Jackson with her.

_30 seconds until closing_ , the mechanical voice says.

Stiles stops at the doors, turns back to smile at Derek. He lifts his hand in a frozen wave. “See you on the other side.”

Derek swallows. “Can’t you just wait a while?” he whispers. Then, weaker still, “Can’t you stay?”

Stiles shakes his head, smiles fondly. “No, I’ve got to get going. Keep in touch, though.”

He steps inside, and the doors slide shut. Derek sees all of them standing together through the glass, sees them chattering away cheerfully, not paying him any mind. He watches, dismayed, as the subway pulls away down the tracks, picking up speed as it goes.

And then it’s gone.

Derek moves forward, numbly, stupidly. He jumps down onto the tracks, starts walking in the opposite direction of the tram, out into the darkness of the tunnel.

His heart feels heavy inside his chest, and with every step he takes, the ground beneath his feet grows softer, gentler. The hard floor of the station turns to green grass, wet blades damp with dew coming up to tickle his heels. A dim light illuminates the darkness of the tunnel, and Derek moves towards it.

And now he’s no longer in a tunnel, but in a forest. In a tight clearing surrounded by twisted trees, black and mangled. An owl takes flight above, hooting menacingly, spreads its wings and soars towards the full moon.

Derek gags at the powerful stench that fills his nostrils, raises his forearm to block out the odor. In the center of the clearing is a deep pit, and in the pit is a writhing mass of flesh and bone. Fatty skin hanging loosely, splitting into blisters and pustules, breaking loose and sagging, tiny fragments of white bone sticking through. Blood pooling around the edges. At the center of the mass, Peter’s charred face grins up at Derek, jagged teeth bared in a macabre smile. “All things together and under the earth,” he rasps mockingly. “Come lie with your brethren!”

New faces push up through the senseless mush: Derek’s father, his mother, Laura’s again. Kate Argent’s as well, and she’s laughing at him, eyes agleam with malice and glee.

And Derek’s knees give way beneath him as he falls to the ground, buries his face against the dirt and leaves and twigs, his shirt splitting in the back. The moon burns hot above him, and he feels his flesh sizzling. And he lets out a horrific bellow as his eyes turn red, as he transforms into the beast.

And then-

 

**XVI.**

****

-he wakes up.

And he’s gasping for breath, fingers clutching tight at the hotel bedsheets, chest heaving up and down. 

He’s got a killer headache, and he’s sweating and alone, and afraid. He looks over and sees the alarm clock blinking in steady tempo.

 

**XVII.**

****

There’s a loud banging on the door, and Stiles groans sleepily, rolls over to look at his phone clock. It’s half past 3 in the morning.

He rubs his forehead, yawning as he clambers out of bed. The knocking persists, and he shouts, “Coming! Jesus, give me a second!”

Leaning over, he flips on the bedside lamp, walks over to open the door.

Derek is standing there, hands clutching both sides of the door frame, sweating profusely, eyes lowered, dark. He’s dressed only in his boxers, and Stiles has to catch his breath for a moment before ushering him inside.

“Ugh...” Derek grunts, sitting down on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, staring. “What’s wrong?” He locks the door, walks over quickly, presses the back of his hand against Derek’s forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up. Do you have a fever? Can werewolves even _get_ fevers? Or is this, like, a wolf thing? Oh God, are you going to go nuts on me, dude? Are you going to feast on my insides? Because I am not _down_ with that shit, okay?! You’ve got to warn me if-”

“Stiles...” Derek interrupts, a low growl rising up in his chest. “Please shut up.”

Stiles stops talking, eyes widening. “Please?” He squats down, looks into Derek’s eyes. “ _Please?_ Oh my God, you said please. You must be really sick, huh?”

Derek groans, falling back to lie on the bed, rubs his face. He drops his hands away slowly, trails his forefingers down his stomach. Stiles follows the movement with his eyes, swallowing audibly.

“Umm...” The kid looks away, stares at the wall. “Okay then. So...do you actually need me to _do_ anything, or are you just planning on lying there and breathing at me?”

Derek closes his eyes, steadies his breathing. “Stiles,” he says again, more calmly this time, “why do you think I brought you here?”

Stiles pauses, looks at him askance. After a moment, he says, “I don’t really know. I was kinda thinking you would tell me when you wanted me to know.”

“Really?” Derek opens his eyes, looks up at the boy. His skin is still flushed, still wet with perspiration, but his heartbeat is slower. Slow enough that he focus in on the sound of Stiles’ pulse beginning to quicken. “You don’t have any idea?”

“I...umm...” Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed, looking down at his lap. He licks his lips nervously. “I might...I could _guess_ , I suppose...but I don’t _know_...anything...”

Derek sits up slowly, ignores Stiles’ sharp breath, scoots nearer. He sits directly next to him, stares at him intently. “What would be your guess?” he asks, voice thick, low and dangerous.

Stiles shivers briefly, then stiffens. He’s still not looking up. “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “It’s stupid...”

Derek stares at him for a few seconds, looks away. He closes his eyes, sighs, a frustrated noise. “Shit,” he says, mostly to himself.

Stiles looks up, frowns. “What?”

“You have to meet me halfway here,” Derek says slowly, carefully. “I can’t do all of the work.” He swallows. “If it’s just _me_...if I’m the only one trying to...” He trails off, shakes his head. “I can’t start this by myself. Okay? I have to know this isn’t just me taking what I want. There has to be something on your...you have to...” He runs a hand through his hair, grunts. “You know?”

“I...” Stiles stares, eyes wide and bright in the light through the crack in the curtains. He turns slowly, twisting his torso to face Derek directly. He looks down at his lap again, bites his lip. “Is this...am I reading this correctly?”

Derek turns, looms over him, breath fanning out over the top of Stiles head, staring down at him. “That depends,” he says quietly. “How are you reading it?”

The silence is deafening, suffocating, and they both sit frozen for a solid minute and a half, stilted breathing and shaking hands interrupting the stillness.

Stiles reaches up, places his hand flat against Derek’s chest. Just lays it there. He looks up to meet Derek’s eyes. “Umm....” he starts.

Derek doesn’t let him finish. He presses in, closing the distance, sealing his mouth over Stiles’, reaching up to cup his face with both hands. He swallows Stiles’ gasp of shock, pushes them both down on the bed, lying on top of the boy, rutting up against him. 

Stiles’ mouth is warm, tastes of peppermint toothpaste with the lingering flavor of chocolate mixed in with everything else. Derek hears the kid groan, and he feels a surge of _want_ and possessiveness, and he drops his hands down to grip Stiles’ biceps, pulls him up and pushes him against the pillows at the head of the bed.

Pulling out of the kiss, his teeth drag along Stiles’ lower lip, leaving his mouth red and swollen. He straddles the boy’s waist, breathing hard, gazing down at him, pupils dark and wide, whites of his eyes going red.

Stiles looks up at him, dazed, mouth hanging open, chest hitching. “Oh my God,” he breathes out, disbelieving. “Oh my _God..._ ”

That second one sounds a little more panicked, and Derek hesitates in his movements, listens to the rapid-fire arhythmic pace of Stiles’ heartbeat. His head twitches. “Are you afraid of me?” he asks, voice low, rough.

Stiles shakes his head nervously, licks his lips, eyes still wide. “Not of you, no,” he squeaks out. “In general...maybe a little.” He swallows. “Maybe a lot.”

Derek reaches down, touches his cheek. “Do you want to stop?”

Stiles shakes his head again, even more vigorously. “No, no, no. Definitely not.”

Derek makes a sort of pained sound, rocks his hips forward into Stiles’. “You have to tell me now,” he grinds out. “I mean it, Stiles. If you want me to stop, you have to tell me _now_.”

Stiles shudders beneath him, hand trembling as they grip Derek’s hips. “Go easy on me?” he whispers, trying for a jokey tone and coming across more terrified than anything else.

Derek shakes his head, mouth twisting into a feral snarl. “No. I am going to _wreck_ you.”

Stiles looks like he might faint. He coughs. “Oh. Umm...okay then. That works, too.”

Derek grins, teeth bared like daggers. 

And then he dives in.

 

**XVIII.**

****

The sun shines in through the blinds, casting long, hot rays across their naked bodies. The sheets lie at the foot of the bed in a crumpled heap, and the smell of sex is palpable in the air.

Derek holds Stiles close to his body, clutches him like he’ll never let go, pressing his chest against the boy’s back. Stiles lets him, head lolling against the pillow as he catches his breath.

“Why here?” he asks softly, foot sliding back to lock between Derek’s legs. “Why now? I’ve thought for a while that maybe, you know, it wasn’t just me. Or at least I’d hoped so. But I never thought you’d actually...”

He trails off, and Derek growls possessively, pulls him closer. He nips at the nape of Stiles’ neck, nosing against one of the many dark hickeys peppering the kid’s body. “You can thank Lydia,” he grumbles. “She encouraged me to...” He pauses, grunts irritably. “Share my feelings...”

Stiles lets out a breathless little laugh, presses his face into the mattress. “You’re not serious? You decided to jump my bones because _Lydia_ said you should?”

Derek snorts, runs his hand up Stiles’ stomach, moving in smooth circles. “I’m not good at openness,” he says, gritting it out like it’s killing him to say. “You know that already. But I don’t want to die alone. And repressing what I’ve been feeling for you isn’t going to do anyone any favors. Not you, or me. Not the pack.” He kisses the back of Stiles’ neck. “I wanted to try and skip the bullshit. The pining. We all have enough to deal with.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully. Then pauses. He twists his neck, turns to stare at Derek, eyes wide with surprise. “Die alone?” he repeats shakily. “So this isn’t just...”

Derek’s mouth draws together in a thin line. His eyes soften. “You are underage,” he says quietly. “And I’m not. This wouldn’t have been worth it - wouldn’t _be_ worth it if I didn’t intend for it to be...real.”

“Oh.” Stiles lowers his eyes, buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck. “That’s...good,” he mumbles, breath from his nose tickling Derek’s skin. “That’s really, really good.” He looks up, blinks. “What are we going to tell the others?”

Derek takes a deep breath. “The truth. I think I’ve had enough secrets to last a lifetime. And we’re trying to start over. So it’s probably good to start with the truth.”

Stiles’ mouth curls upward. He closes his eyes. “The truth sound perfect,” he murmurs.

 

**XIX.**

****

Stiles clambers into the passenger’s seat, buckles his seatbelt. Derek gets in beside him and starts the car.

The two of them sit silently for a minute or so, stare up at the hotel looming above them.

“When we get home,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek’s shoulders stiffen in anticipation, “are you going to change your mind about this? Because if you are, I think I deserve a little bit of warning beforehand...”

Derek relaxes, tension draining out of his shoulders. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief, lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. He reaches over, cups his hand around the back of Stiles’ head, strokes his hair. “Not a chance,” he replies.

Stiles nods slowly, lets out breath of his own. “Alright then,” he says shakily, relieved. “Let’s go.”

Derek pulls the car into reverse.

Down on the beach, the waves crash against the shore, slamming into the sand, wetting the ground. The tide flows in, bringing with it a series of seashells, scattering them all across the earth. 

 

The next wave sweeps in and washes them all away, like they were never there at all.


	7. precious bodily fluids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic sex and violence in this chapter. Just a heads up.

**I.**

They’re here; all of them together in the basement - the newly renovated rec room - sprawled out on the floor and on the various pieces of furniture, looking between Derek and Stiles, attentive and expectant.

“So, we have something to tell you all,” Derek mutters gruffly.

Jackson shifts slightly on the floor by the television, props his chin up in his palm. He looks decidedly bored. Scott and Allison exchange a glance, sitting squashed together on the couch. Stiles can feel Scott’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head, as if he’s trying to look inside. Lydia seems perfectly calm, hands folded together in her lap, expression a picturesque image of politeness.

She leans forward in the armchair, sticking her finger out to poke Derek in the ribs, gently. Prompting him to speak. “Yes?” she says, in the sort of tone that makes Stiles suspect she already knows what they have to say.

Derek clears his throat, grimaces. “Yeah. Alright.” He pauses, eyes flickering up towards the ceiling. “Stiles and I...” he starts, trailing off and making a move to wrap his arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

And the pack breaks the silence.

“Finally,” Lydia mutters, slumping back in her seat, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. She looks smug.

“Knew it,” Allison sing-songs. Her smile fades slightly after catching a glimpse of Scott’s concerned expression.

Jackson doesn’t even blink. “Brilliant. Really.” He looks away, yawns pointedly. “Can you un-mute the TV now?”

Although his face doesn’t show it, Derek seems relieved, and Stiles can feel the tension drain out of the werewolf’s body at his side. “Well then. Glad that went smoothly.”

Stiles scowls, glaring around the room at everyone in turn, expression accusing. “Seriously? _No one_ is surprised by this?” He directs his attention towards Scott, lifts an eyebrow in expectation. 

Scott looks helplessly at Allison, who just shrugs and scoots away, raises her palms in surrender. “Umm...” He makes a popping sound with his mouth, blinks owlishly. “We’ve all kinda known for ages...”

“Dude!” Stiles stares at him, indignant. “How is it possible that you knew about this before _I_ did?! You are, like, the most unobservant _thing_ that’s ever existed!”

Now it’s Scott’s turn to look indignant. “Hey!” He makes a sort of half-flailing motion, sputtering, and eventually settles on crossing his arms, lower lip protruding, sulking. “I thought you already knew! How could you _not_? What with all of the soulful staring at each other, and the way Derek basically _eye-fucks_ you, and-”

“What?!” Stiles interrupts, scowl disappearing, replaced quickly by embarrassment. “He doesn’t do that!”

Lydia snorts. “Uh, he kinda does.”

“Alright!” Derek says loudly, body tensed up again. His grip on Stiles’ shoulder tightens, and Stiles lets out a little squeak, stares up at him. “Thank you, Lydia. That’ll be all.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. Derek glares at her. She matches gaze evenly for about five seconds, then ducks her head, reluctantly submitting.

“Television...” Jackson whines petulantly, searching for the mute button on the monitor.

“In a minute,” Derek snaps at him. He looks at all of them in turn, eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Clearly this isn’t coming as a shock to you. That said, I need to know that this isn’t going to be a problem.”

“No, of course not,” Allison chimes in, somehow finding the boldness to reach around Stiles’ shoulders and briefly touch the back of Derek’s neck. “I think it’s great.”

“Uh, yeah. No one cares,” Jackson says, totally ruining the moment. He jerks his head at the TV screen, raises a demanding eyebrow. Derek ignores him.

“It’s not a _problem_...” Scott says slowly. He’s not quite meeting Stiles’ gaze, looking instead at a spot on the couch. “I mean...you know. The gay thing. That’s cool and all. You know that already, right? Like, that isn’t a big deal.”

Stiles scratches his cheek, ears tinged pink, flushed. “But?” he prompts.

Scott shrugs. “No but. Just...I dunno. I sort of assumed that when you two got together, _if_ you got together, it would be later on. Like, when you turned 18 or something.”

Lydia makes a quiet, thoughtful noise, nods to herself. Derek winces slightly, mouth twitching. “The age difference _is_ a concern,” he grumbles. “No one’s denying that.”

“Your dad is the sheriff, dude,” Scott says, nudging Stiles in the ribs. He chews on his lip, glances at Allison. “I mean, none of us are going to rat you guys out, obviously, but still. He’s not stupid. He’ll catch on eventually.”

Stiles fidgets uncomfortably. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to do our best to hide it from him.”

Derek breathes noisily out through his nose, his brow furrowed into thick lines. “We’ll tell him after you graduate,” he says. “I think that would be best.”

Allison hums mildly, bobs her head. “I agree,” she chirps. She brightens considerably, perking up with a smile. “ _So_ ,” she prompts, waggling her eyebrows at Stiles. “How long has this been going on? Details, details.”

“A week, I’m guessing,” Jackson says tonelessly, making no effort to conceal his boredom. Everyone turns to stare at him. He shrugs, taps the side of his nose. “You both reek of each other. Like, your scents are basically inseparable at this point.” He fixes Stiles with an odd look. “I don’t even want to know what he’s been doing to you, man.”

Stiles blushes. Derek closes his eyes, covers his face with his hands.

Scott looks mortified, clamps his palms over his ears. “Ugh, I’m not listening! Jesus...I don’t need to think about you two doing...anything. Ever.”

“You’re one to talk,” Lydia pipes up, cutting over Stiles’ offended squeak. “I’d be surprised if there’s a single person left on the western seaboard who _doesn’t_ know the intimate details of your sex life.”

Scott splutters wordlessly, but Allison just laughs. Derek shakes his head, groans. “Children,” he mutters. “I’m Alpha to a pack of fucking _children_.”

Lydia pats his knee. “Oh, hush. You love us all.”

Jackson pushes himself off the floor with a grunt, scoots over to snatch the TV remote out from between Stiles and Derek’s legs, glares at them. “Riveting conversation, really. But can we continue this later?”

Derek growls a little at the sign of disrespect, but he doesn’t argue when Jackson turns the volume up. He just sits back, leaning into the couch cushions, allowing his hold on Stiles’ shoulders to loosen. Lydia twists around to let her feet dangle over the armrest of her chair, lets Allison lean over and braid her hair while Jackson flips through channels. Scott rubs his eyes, yawns, stretches out to rest in a lazy sprawl.

Stiles leans into Derek’s touch, turns his neck to murmur in his ear. “Well. Uh. That went better than I expected.”

 

**II.**

Monday afternoon, and the sky is cloudless and blue, heat waves sizzling in plain view above the dusty, dry blacktop.

Chris steps out of the light of the window, walks over to the bed to sift through his stuff. He hasn’t packed much, just a few changes of clothes and a book for the hotel that night. A sandwich for the road and a purple plastic water canteen.

He loads up his pistol, polishes it clean. He puts in the bag with the rest of his things. All the while, he can hear Victoria outside the bedroom door, pacing around the kitchen, stirring up a racket with all of her banging of pots and pans, clattering about in drawers. He zips up the bag, pulls the strap up and over his shoulder. 

Wiping at his nose with the back of his sleeve, he turns to look at himself in the full-length mirror by the bathroom door. It’s curious how, even having observed his reflection every morning in preparation for the day, the man staring back at him still seems a stranger. The face gazing back hardly appears to be his own, haggard and weary, lined from years of secrets and hardship.

He lifts a hand, delicately plucks a stray hair between his thumb and index finger, pulls it aside. Brushes his bangs away from his forehead. He takes a steadying breath, walks out into the living room.

At the sound of his boots touching down on the hardwood floor, Victoria stiffens visibly, keeps her back turned, looking down into the basin of the sink. Chris can see her fingernails digging into the grout of the countertop, can see the tension in her knees, the rigidity of her posture.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be back later in the week,” he says, privately pleased by the calmness in his tone.

Victoria nods, still not turning around. “We’ll see you then,” she replies. No emotion at all.

Chris’ hand clenches, pulling at the strap of his bag. He shifts his weight to his left leg. “What have you told Allison?” he asks, and his voice _does_ waver ever so slightly this time.

“The truth,” Victoria answers. “You’re going to visit your father. And you’ll be back in several days.”

Chris taps his foot once, lets his heel click against the woodwork. He nods slowly, even though she’s not turned around to see. “Right,” he says. Clears his throat again. He opens his mouth, closes it.

He turns away, heads for the door. And she doesn’t follow to see him out.

 

**III.**

Officer Martinez frowns, bends down to fish his binoculars out from underneath his seat, brings them up to his eyes. “What’s this now?” he murmurs to himself. He adjusts the focus, squints through the lenses.

He watches Chris Argent walking down the drive from the porch, head ducked low, expression somber. He pans over to the window, watches Victoria gazing out the window, peering through the blinds. Her face is blanked out, carefully arranged into icy indifference. 

Chris starts his car, shifting into reverse as he backs out to the road. Victoria just watches. And Martinez watches them both.

“Hmmm...” He retrieves his tape recorder, presses the red button. “Note,” he says, “Time of day: 5:00 pm. Target 1 headed out, black bag in tow. Target 2 stationary.” He presses stop, taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He lifts the binoculars once more, just in time to see Victoria drop her hand away from the blinds, emotionless mask crumbling into troubled concern. He presses the red button again. “Gut feeling, something’s going down. Following Target 1 now.”

Pressing stop, he reaches up and turns the key in the ignition, steers the vehicle away from the curb and starts to track the car ahead from a safe distance. He lights up a cigarette, rolls down the window. 

He sets the binoculars down on the seat next to him, pushes his sunglasses up to rest on the bridge of his nose. 

And he begins to whistle.

 

**IV.**

Sheriff Stilinski sneezes violently, sprays an ugly globule of mucus into his already dirtied kleenex. He balls up the tissue paper, tosses it in the garbage bin with the rest.

Lying back on the couch, he pulls the phone away from his chest, presses it up to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here,” he sniffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’ve come down with the flu.”

“No problem, sir,” Martinez replies, voice barely audible over the static of the reception. “Just calling to give you a progress report on the Argent thing.”

The sheriff nods to himself, grunts in acknowledgment.

Martinez continues, “He’s crossed over city lines, so I can’t follow him any further. But speaking from instinct, sir, I’d say your gut’s right about this guy. Something’s definitely going down. It looks as though they might be making some sort of move. Finally.”

“Shit, we really need that wiretap...” the sheriff mutters, more for his own benefit than for the sake of conversation. Louder, he says, “Good work, officer. Keep all eyes on that house. If they’re going to trip up now, we want to be there to catch the mistake when it happens.” He lowers the receiver for a moment, hacks up some mucus from the back of his throat, spits it into the trash can. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ve got to say...I think we’re almost there. Chris Argent is a cautious man, but he’s only human. And I think his patience just ran out. We’re going to connect him to this shit, you wait and see.”

“Very good, sir.”

The line goes dead, and the sheriff leans over to set the phone back on its hook.

There’s a rustling from the kitchen, the sound of running water. Stiles enters through the door a minute or so later, wet washcloth dripping in his hand. “Lean back,” he says, pushing his father back down into a reclining position, places the cloth gently over his forehead. “I bought some of that gooey crap you like at the pharmacy.” He sets a little tub down on the coffee table. “The label says you should rub some under your nose to help with the congestion. Just a little bit, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver, kid,” the sheriff mumbles, reaching up to squeeze the washcloth. A trail of water drips down the side of his face, curling around the curve of his ear.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stiles replies, not missing a beat. He stands abruptly, flashes a wide smile, beams. “Alright then. I’m going to spend the night at Scott’s, but if you need anything at all, just give me a call. I’ll come straight over.”

His father’s mouth slants upward, a lopsided grin. “You know I won’t.”

Stiles sighs, though it’s a fond sound. “Yeah, I know. You and me both; can’t ask for help when we need it, eh?”

The sheriff waves him off. “Go. Have fun, be safe.”

Stiles’ hand comes down to rest briefly on his father’s shoulder, squeezes gently. “See you tomorrow.” He gestures at the bottle on the table as he backs towards the door, eyebrows arched sternly. “Don’t use too much of that stuff. Remember the rash last time?”

“Got it. _Go._ ”

The door clicks as it closes, locks from the outside. The sheriff presses a hand against the damp cloth, lets his eyes flutter shut. 

He’s drifting in between various states of alertness, mind alternately running at a mile a minute and slogging along through an empty haze. There’s a deeply rooted sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as he contemplates this mess with the Argents. Considering last year’s body count - not to mention the Hale arson incident - it’s highly unlikely whatever secrets he manages to dredge up will be pleasant in nature. And it’s unlikelier still that Chris will go down without a fight. When the time comes, that is.

And it’s not as though Derek isn’t _involved_ , regardless of whether he’s directly responsible for any of the killings. The sheriff knows this, can’t deny it.

Thinking over the night of Kate Argent’s death as he slips into unconsciousness, the thought occurs to him for the first time - something he should have been aware of from the very beginning: Stiles’ involvement. Because the boy _does_ know something; he must. His lingering presence at the crime scenes is evidence enough, as much as the sheriff would love to dismiss that as coincidence.

But there are no coincidences in this line of work. He’s just not that lucky.

 

**V.**

Rubber-tipped cylinders of slick, shaven wood graze the black bark of the gnarled sycamores as arrow after arrow slices through the muggy warmth and lands with a thwack against the rocks and hardened trunks. Scott’s sneakers scratch deep patterns in the dirt, shoelaces catching on thorns, crunching down in the brambles as he dodges every attack.

Throwing himself to the right, he winces as his shoulder slams into the side of a slanted tree, and he yelps as the next arrow hits home, smacking straight into the center of his chest, bouncing off and landing at his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” He rubs his chest ruefully, looks down at the fallen projectile, at the blue and green hue of its gossamer-thin feathered end. “That hurt!”

Allison pauses, lowers her crossbow and smiles at him from her perch atop the jagged boulder up the slope. “Please. Don’t be a baby. It’s not like they’re _real_.”

Scott stamps down on the arrow, snaps it in half beneath his heel. “You know, Stiles would probably be jealous if he knew we were doing this,” he says. “He used to help me train all the time, back before the pack got together.”

“Oh, I know he doesn’t mind,” Allison calls. She squats down, dangles her legs over the edge of the rock, dropping down to descend into the ravine. The damp leaves squelch with her every step. “He’s the one who suggested this, actually. Said he had something else to do today.”

Scott snorts, dusts off the front of his shirt. “More like some _one_ to do.”

Allison shakes her head. “Be nice,” she chides, although she’s not entirely hiding the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. “You should be happy for him.”

“I am.” Scott shrugs. “He’s my best friend and I’m glad he’s getting some, finally. You know, in that abstract ‘dude, you’re like my brother and I never want to think about you naked’ sort of way.”

Allison bumps his shoulder playfully as they wander back through the trees to the gravel path, picking up stray arrows as they meander along. “So you don’t really care?” she presses, eyebrow lifted in expectation, expression open and curious. “That it’s Derek?”

Scott shrugs, runs his tongue along his gums, licking at his bottom row of teeth. “I dunno. It’s weird, I guess. But it’s not like we haven’t had plenty of time to see this coming. They’ve been dancing around each other for months.”

A cardinal touches down lightly on a thin branch just to the left, talons gripping the wood and wings flapping for a few seconds before settling down. It tilts its head, peering at them with wide eyes, brilliant red color tainted with a thick line of mud smeared across its chest in a diagonal slash. It chirps noisily, shakes itself off.

“It’s good he’s found someone,” Allison says softly, looking at the bird, head tilted to match its stance. “Good for both of them, really.” 

Scott hums absently, dips his head. He stuffs his hands roughly in his pockets, flips his bangs out of his eyes. The sunlight filtering in through the branches casts twisted shadows on the path ahead of them. A sudden gust of wind comes in between the v-shape of a split trunk down the hill, and a flurry of leaves blows up around their knees, sticking to their jeans before flying away. “His dad will be pissed, though,” Scott remarks after they start walking again. “I think he’d probably be cool if it was, like, Danny or something. But he’s not going to be happy with this.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Allison says. “Even if he does figure it out, you know that’s not going to stop Stiles from getting what he wants.”

Scott smiles, chuckles. “Yeah, being told no isn’t going to do much in the way of stopping him.” He scratches the back of his head, runs his fingers through his hair. “Still, it’s something to think about. I’ve known his dad for a really long time, and I know he only wants what’s best for his family. Just, I don’t know what that would mean for us if he finds out. He’s an understanding guy, but everybody’s got their limits. And Derek Hale is probably one of his.”

Allison retrieves an elastic band from her back pants pocket, reaches up to twist her hair into a ponytail. She lets out a breathy little laugh, grins. Responding to Scott’s querying look, she says, “I just can’t believe this is our biggest concern right now. I mean, we’re in a _werewolf_ pack, and the most pressing issue at hand is hiding our friend’s secret boyfriend from his father.”

Scott smiles, then pauses. He gives her a weird look. “You think of it like that?” he asks.

Allison stops walking, frowns. “What do you mean?”

Scott’s mouth is tilted at the side, a thoughtful smile. “You said _we_ are in a pack. I didn’t realize you felt that way. Like one of us.”

Allison smiles back, strangely shy. “Well, yeah.” Then, somewhat teasingly, “I hope that’s okay.”

Scott arranges his expression into mock-seriousness. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll have to check with the Alpha first. See if you meet the qualifications for pack status.”

He barely manages to jump away from the punch aimed at his shoulder.

 

**VI.**

Derek opens the door, pauses with his palm laid flat against the frame. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, snorts. “Nice to see you, too.” He glances around Derek’s side, fiddles with the white envelope in his hand and hefting an empty duffel bag over his shoulder. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Derek steps aside, waves him through the doorway. “I was just expecting someone else.”

Stepping in the foyer, Jackson looks to the hallway, to the smattering of shiny pictures frames arranged in a zig-zag line on the left wall opposite the door to the basement. One of Scott and Allison together, sitting out on the newly installed porch swing; her head leaning on his shoulder. One of Stiles alone, smiling at the photographer, eyes bright in the morning light, lens flare coloring the corner of the picture. One of Jackson and Lydia talking together, heads ducked low as they crouch by the forest’s edge in the shade of the pine trees.

Jackson makes a soft, surprised sound, turns to Derek, expression quizzical. “We didn’t pose for that,” he says, pointing at the wall. “Did you, like, sneak up on us and take a bunch of pictures?”

Derek shrugs. “Maybe.”

Jackson shakes his head wonderingly. “Fucking creeper.” He drums his fingers against the edge of the envelope, extends his hand to pass it over. “Your paycheck for the month, Mr. Businessman.”

Derek takes it gingerly, peels back the flap to look within, examines the loopy writing staining the corner of the green-tinted check. “I still don’t like this,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t seem like that long ago since you gave me one of these. Are you sure you’re being careful? We can’t afford any more attention.”

“Relax. A check a month is totally standard procedure. Besides, most of the money we have coming in now is clean. No one’s going to suspicious, I swear.” Jackson nods in the direction of the hall door. “So. Wanna fill me up?” He unzips his black bag, waggles his eyebrows mischievously.

Derek sighs, nods.

Down in the basement, there’s a closed off grate hidden behind the bookshelf in the corner of the room, a vent through which no heat or air passes. Working together, Derek and Jackson push the shelf out of the way, slide it across the carpet to expose the opening. Derek squats down with a nickel in hand, unscrews the bolts holding the grate in place.

The rest of the cash is all there, held down with blue duct tape, layered together in clips of hundreds. Derek grunts, thrusts the length of his arm into the vent, reaching to the back to peel away several handfuls.

He tosses a clip to Jackson. “How many, do you think?” he asks.

Jackson thinks for a moment. “I dunno. Maybe five thousand or so for the month. Like you said, better to funnel it in slowly.”

Derek procures another few bundles, hears the gentle tearing sound of the bills coming undone from the tape. Jackson holds the black bag open as Derek stuffs the rolls into the central pouch, zips it closed once he’s finished.

“Nice doing business with you,” Jackson says, flashes a brilliant smile. Derek doesn’t return it.

“Just don’t get cocky. All it takes is one mistake for the whole damn thing to come crashing down around our heads.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I know, alright?” He shakes his head, lower lip sticking out in a slight pout. “Seriously, can’t you see when things are good? We’ve got more money than we’ll ever need, and with more coming in every day. You’re not a fugitive anymore, and the cops don’t even seem to care about all of those people who kicked it last fall. No other packs threatening our turf, no hunters riding our asses. And we’re all starting to get along with each other for the most part. I mean, fuck, man. What’s it going to take for you to quit grouching?”

Derek glares at him, eyes flashing. “A little more respect would be a good start,” he growls, drawing himself up to full height. Jackson backs away instinctively, and Derek can hear the boy’s pulse spike, scent sweetened by nervousness.

“Okay, okay. I get it. Sorry.” Jackson licks his lips, swallows. “Just, I’m not sure what it is you’re waiting for. You’re not pining after Stilinski anymore, so I don’t really understand what you’re being so uptight about.”

Derek studies him for a moment, tension in his shoulders slackening. The light in his eyes fades, and he sighs, nods slowly. “You’re right,” he mutters, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

Jackson blinks, face open and exposed, uncertain. “If there’s something else I can do,” he says, slowly, cautiously, “you can just tell me. J-just tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

There’s an element of desperation in his voice, of carefully boxed-in fear. Macho bravado and selfishness aside, the kid’s eager to please, terrified of screwing up and being rejected. Derek hates the slight stutter in Jackson’s speech, and he steps closer, dips his head to nuzzle up against the side of the boy’s neck. “You’re doing fine,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

Jackson makes a quiet sound, almost a whimper, and his posture goes rigid. Like he wants to lean into the touch, to accept the comfort, but can’t quite let himself. Can’t allow himself to display any sign of weakness.

He eventually relents though, tilts his head to brush his cheek against Derek’s, a low growl thrumming deep within his chest. He pulls away, eyes lowered, clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna get going.”

Derek nods, backs away to give him space. Jackson pulls the strap of the bag over his shoulder and ascends the staircase, hand gripping the banister a little tighter than usual.

“One more thing,” Derek calls as Jackson reaches for the doorknob. “A while back, Stiles mentioned to me that your friend Danny was starting to ask questions. Is that still an issue?”

Jackson pauses, looks over his shoulder. “Not really. I mean, he’s still worried about me, if that’s what you’re getting at. But it’s not like he’s actively trying to butt into my business.” He chews on his lower lip. “You’re not going to hurt him, right?”

Derek shakes head. “No. I was thinking about bringing him in on this thing. Make him a part of the pack.”

Jackson’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“I was thinking we could have a sit down,” Derek says. “All of us together. Explain the risks to him.”

“Oh, man. That would seriously be so helpful.” Jackson looks immensely relieved, happy. “I’ve felt like shit about keeping all these secrets from him. And I think he’d be a good addition to the group. I know he would.”

Derek nods, gives him a slanted smile. “Well, we’ll set something up then. Maybe later in the week.”

Jackson grins, turns around and steps out into the hallway.

The door closes, and Derek hears the sound of knocking from above, cutting through the noise of Jackson’s footsteps on the hardwood floor. He hears the front door open, listens in as Jackson talks to Stiles.

“Is that a toothbrush I see?” Jackson teases, voice dragging out in his trademark, superior drawl. “Sleeping over on a school night? For shame, Stilinski.”

Stiles doesn’t rise to the bait. “What are you doing here? I didn’t miss a meeting, did I?”

Derek hears Jackson step out onto the porch, probably moving around Stiles to descend the front stairs. “Nope, your boyfriend and I just had a little business to discuss.”

“Alright then.” There’s a dull thunk; Stiles’ backpack being dropped to the ground beside the door. “See you later, I guess.”

“Later,” Jackson calls, and then he’s gone.

Derek ascends the steps out of the basement as Stiles calls his name, pokes his head around the corner to wave in greeting. “Right here,” he says.

Stiles beams, edges over slowly to step up on his tip-toes and press a chaste kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” Derek snakes his arms around Stiles’ back, pulls him closer. He buries his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck, inhales deeply. “So. You’re staying the night?”

He feels Stiles shiver, hears the way the boy’s breath catches in his chest. “Yeah, if you want me to.”

Derek’s grip tightens. He opens his mouth against Stiles’ neck, enjoys the strangled sound the kiss elicits. “I do,” he murmurs in Stiles’ ear. 

Stiles pulls back, and Derek lifts his head to capture the boy’s lips with his own, brings his hands around to seize Stiles’ shoulders. They move together, backing up until they’re pressed flush against the wall, Derek pinning Stiles roughly to the flat panel and licking into his mouth in a sort of animalistic frenzy. Derek’s breathing grows shallow, eyes burning and teeth glistening sharp and nipping teasingly at the soft skin just below Stiles’ jawline.

“Umm...” Stiles swallows thickly, pupils dilated, face flushed. “Do you wanna...upstairs?”

Derek rocks his hips forward, slides his hand up to run through the boy’s fuzzy hair. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

Stiles huffs out a nervous laugh, half _I still can’t believe this is actually happening to me_ , and half _Oh God, you’re not joking, are you?_ “Well, let’s just take one step at a time, shall we?”

He somehow manages to slip out of Derek’s grasp, stepping around him and away from the wall. Derek growls, discontented, appeased only when Stiles takes hold of his hand, guides him towards the staircase.

They’re about halfway to the top when Derek can’t take it anymore, yanks hard on Stiles’ hand, ignoring the responding yelp and pulling the boy in close as he stumbles back down a couple of steps. Derek forces his mouth over Stiles’, drinks in his taste and  his scent, grips his arms with strength enough to bruise. Their feet become tangled, and they trip on one another’s heels, fall down with a resonant thunk on the polished planks.

Stiles winces, but he doesn’t protest, obediently allows Derek to continue in his assault. Derek reaches down and fists his hand in the waistband of Stiles’ jeans, starts working at the button there, trying to open the fly. Stiles whines, shudders. 

“Condom, Derek,” he breathes, voice strained, hoarse. Derek growls, licks a trail up Stiles neck to his chin, and up to his mouth, practically salivating. The taste of Stiles’ sweat is like a drug; he can’t get enough, can’t stop until he’s drowning in sensory overload. Stiles twists his neck, turns away from the kiss. He clears his throat. “I mean it,” he says, more forcefully this time. “Condom or nothing.”

Derek pulls back, glares at him. The whites of his eyes are splotched with flaming crimson. Stiles arches an eyebrow, matches his gaze levelly. His heartbeat is surprisingly steady, if somewhat elevated in pace.

“Mmph.” Derek jerks his head to the side, eyes flickering down to his pants. “Back pocket,” he grits out. “Get it now.”

Stiles snorts, slides his hand over the curve of Derek’s ass, fingers slipping into the pocket to retrieve the packet. “You’re not serious. You just carry one around with you wherever you go?”

“I do now,” Derek replies. Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but then Derek manages to yank his pants down, and his response turns to meaningless babble as Derek’s fingers start pushing inside him.

“Fucking- nngh...” His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, perspiration dampening his forehead. “God...shit. Oh, fuck...”

Derek grins, feral and manic. His lips curl back over his teeth, a dark growl rolling around inside his chest. “Get ready. It’s coming.” Legs wriggling, he shimmies out of his pants, struggles to pull the condom over his cock with one hand.

Stiles’ head jerks from side to side, eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging open. “Hurts,” he whimpers. 

Derek slows the thrusting of his fingers, cranes his neck to press a comforting kiss to Stiles’ temple. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs soothingly, coaxingly. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

He grips Stiles’ hips roughly, pulls him closer, spreading his legs as wide as they can go. Stiles back arches against the stairs, hands flailing out to grip at the support beams of the banister. He trembles as Derek presses up against him, prepares to enter. “Not too fast. Not too much at once.”

And Derek would oblige - really, he would - but the wolf snarls _Claim_ , and he pushes in all the way, right up to the hilt. Stiles gasps, and Derek breathes in the scent of his pain, of his pleasure. “That’s good,” Derek hisses, muscles straining, veins bulging out. “You’re good, it’s good. It’s okay.”

“Bastard,” Stiles chokes out, and he looks torn between arousal and amusement and outrage. “You can’t just-” 

He cuts off with a groan as Derek starts to move, thrusting in and out, fingernails digging into his hipbones. “I know what you want,” Derek hisses, and his eyes aren’t even remotely human anymore. “I can smell it on you.” He dips down, forces his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, bites his lip, drawing blood right to the surface without letting it break. Pulling away, he says, “I won’t do anything you don’t want. I’ll never do anything you can’t handle.”

Stiles inhales, breath coming in harsh and ragged. He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, winces as Derek rocks forward. “You should listen to me anyway,” he gasps, fingers slipping as Derek’s skin becomes slick with sweat. “Trust me to tell you what I want. And stop when I say stop.”

The manic gleam in Derek’s eyes dissipates slightly, animal features slipping away as his expression sobers. He blinks, slows his pace, moving gently now. He loosens his grip on Stiles’ hips, reaches up to touch the boy’s cheek in apology. “Okay. I will.”

Stiles extends his hands to the left and right, gripping the baseboards and the banister, steeling himself. He smirks, lip curled in a decidedly Jackson-esque manner. “Good. Now fuck me senseless.”

Derek snarls, dives down to latch himself to Stiles’ collarbone.

And the aroma of sex permeates the air, hot and thick and all-encompassing. Everywhere.

 

**VII.**

Face pressed down into the hot leather of the Porsche’s backseat, Jackson lets out a strangled cry, feels the rush of warmth and sticky wetness down below. He squeezes Lydia’s shoulders, tilts his neck to kiss her cheek. 

She chuckles, hand coming around to pat him on the ass. He pulls out of her, slow and steady, rolls over to lie on his back, chest rising and falling with every breath. Reaching up, he adjusts the angle of the air conditioner’s grate, closes his eyes as the cool gust hits him in the face.

“Car sex,” Lydia remarks, brushing her hair aside as she hooks her bra in the back. “Haven’t done that in a while.”

Jackson’s hand trails down his belly, comes to rest against his thigh. He frowns slightly, lifts his head to look down. “Ugh, shit.” He pulls his hand away, rubs his fingers together.

Lydia glances over, snorts. “What, you spill some?”

“Help me out, will you?” he snaps, gingerly removing the condom, cupping a hand underneath it. “I don’t want to fuck up the upholstery.”

She rolls her eyes in response, snatches the condom away from him and tosses it carelessly out the window. “Please. A little semen never hurt anyone.”

Jackson makes a face. “You are seriously the weirdest chick ever, you know that?”

Lydia pulls her shirt on carefully, tugs the hem down to her waistline. She leans back with a sigh, rests her head against Jackson’s chest and cranes her neck to kiss his shoulder. “Oh, I know. And by all means, keep calling me a chick. Girls love that.”

“Hmmm.” Jackson wraps a lazy arm around her, reaches down with his other hand to tug his boxers up.

The moisture fogging up the windows is beginning to evaporate, letting in the sunset glow through the glass. Jackson squints, shields his eyes from the glare.

“So what’s the occasion?” Lydia asks passively. “Couldn’t wait for my parents to get out of the house? Just got the itch?”

Jackson yawns, snakes a hand under her shirt. “Can’t I just be horny?” he mutters, pinching her hip. “Does there really have to be a deeper reason for everything?”

Lydia smacks his hand away, a smile dancing in her eyes, She lets her fingers trail down his side, swiping a gentle path through the soft layer of lingering sweat. “There doesn’t _have_ to be. But there usually is.”

Jackson ignores her, lets his eyes flutter shut, tilts his head back. “Nice day,” he murmurs, enjoying the feel of the sunlight on his skin. 

“You said someone else’s name,” Lydia says calmly, refusing to be deterred. “When you were getting close. Right before we finished. I heard you.”

Jackson’s jaw tenses, and he silently counts to ten before replying. “Is that a problem? I thought we agreed that this was just a fuck-buddy situation?”

Lydia shrugs delicately, rubs a slow, steady circle against Jackson’s stomach. “It’s not a problem. I’m just telling you that I heard. And that you can talk to me if you want.”

“Heh.” Jackson’s lips twitch in amusement. “You know I won’t.”

Lydia turns her head slightly, kisses his neck. “I know you won’t,” she agrees.

And they stay mostly silent after that, letting the afternoon slip into evening as the sun disappears behind the trees and the hills.

 

**VIII.**

Isaac stumbles into the hall bathroom, bent over with his arm curled protectively around his stomach, clutching at his ribs. He falls to his knees beside the toilet, retching violently into the filthy basin, choking up dark bile, spitting and drooling.

He shudders, elbows propped up on the rim, breathing in the foul smell as he collects himself. Standing shakily, he moves to the mirror, examines his reflection.

His face is colored by a purple bruise slanted down the length of his cheekbone, sticky redness clotting at the corner of his eyebrow. He doesn’t think his ribs are broken, but every breath feels like being punched in the gut all over again. Lifting a hand to touch his shoulder, he hisses at the pain, cringes as he peels back his sleeve to examine the bruise darkening there.

The sound of the front door slamming shut catches his attention, and he wanders back out into the hallway. The car in the drive starts up, and he sees the glare of the headlamps shining through the curtains in the living room as his father pulls back into the street and speeds away. The screech of the tires fades, and Isaac lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

He staggers further into the living room, eyes scanning the mantelpiece in the darkness. He sees it: the blinking red light.

And in spite of his split lip, his mouth turns upward in a satisfied smile. Grim victory at last.

 

**IX.**

The drain plug hooks in place, and the steady stream of warm water showers down from the brass nozzle as the boys lie curled together in the ovular basin of the bathtub. Stiles squints, skin pinched tight around his eyes as droplets rain down upon his face.

“So what did you and Jackson have to talk about?” he chirps, oblivious to Derek’s discontented groan.

“Aren’t you tired yet? We’ve been going at it for hours, and you still want to talk. And about _Jackson_...”

Stiles squirms closer, presses his nose into Derek’s armpit, trails his hand up the werewolf’s chest to poke at the side of his neck. He blinks up at him. “I like to talk. So sue me. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting into when you started this thing.”

“I guess you’re right,” Derek grumbles. He runs his fingers over Stiles’ scalp, through the boy’s wet hair. He shifts slightly in the rapidly filling tub, toes curling as the water level rises.

“So?” Stiles prompts, tucking his head underneath Derek’s chin. “Jackson?”

Derek lifts his foot, kicks the shower nozzle off. The water starts pouring from the faucet down by the plastic temperature knobs. “He just wanted to talk about the store. Financial stuff. Nothing interesting.”

Stiles hums, and Derek feels more than sees the way the boy’s eyebrows knit together, the way his mouth turns down in a slight frown. “Yeah, what’s that about, exactly? You’ve never really struck me much as the entrepreneurial type. Or am I wrong?”

Derek looks down at him, incredulous. “Is this going to be typical post-coital talk?” he asks. Stiles laughs.

“I’m just curious.”

Derek sucks on the inside of his cheek. “It was for the house,” he says after a minute. “And for the pack. Jackson sold me on the idea.”

Stiles makes a thoughtful sound, slightly off, like he’s not quite convinced. But he doesn’t press the subject any further.

They’re silent for a while after that, soaking in the water, pressed close together. Stiles doesn’t talk again until some time later when he’s leaning up against the doorframe, watching Derek towel off his hair. 

“What Scott said the other day...” he starts slowly, uncertainly.

Derek pauses, lowers the towel away from his head, wipes his nose with the back of his forearm. “Yes?”

Stiles pushes away from the wall, standing upright and fidgeting, picking at his fingernails. “Well, what do you think about it?” he asks. “About the age difference.”

Derek frowns. “I thought we talked about this already.”

“We did. Sort of.” Stiles rubs his mouth, bites his nails. “I dunno. You said it was an issue, but you didn’t really elaborate beyond that. So I’m not sure how you feel about it.”

Derek’s expression softens. He extends his arm, beckons. “Come here.” Stiles obliges, moves closer, and Derek grabs his arm, pulls him flush against his chest. “You’re mature enough to ask these questions. And you’re assertive enough to challenge me, in the bedroom and otherwise. If you weren’t either of those things, we wouldn’t be here now. But you are.” He shrugs. “So we’re here.”

Stiles relaxes, and Derek feels the tension drain out of his shoulders. “Not sure my dad will see it that way,” he murmurs.

Derek hesitates, thinks for a moment. “Do you want to tell him? he asks slowly. Stiles grunts.

“I don’t think we should. Not yet, at least. But I don’t like keeping secrets from him. Fuck knows I’ve had to lie to him enough already...”

Derek cocks his head to the side. “I can’t exactly forbid you from saying anything, but just bear in mind, there will be consequences for whatever decisions we end up making. Whether we tell him or not.”

Stiles nods. “I know.” His mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Fucking sucks, though.”

Derek snorts. “No argument there.” He reaches down and interlocks his fingers with Stiles’, tugs him towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

He pulls, and Stiles follows obediently. And they clamber onto the bed in the darkness and lie together in the coolness of the sheets. Stiles falls asleep first, and his breath is warm on the nape of Derek’s neck.

And for the first time in years, Derek feels a small measure of peace.

 

**X.**

Tuesday morning, bright and early.

Even at dawn, the Oregon sky is impossibly blue, cloudless atmosphere stretched in a radiant dome over the earth. A murder of crows congregates high above, black specks with beating wings twisting in double helix array over the raging river off the left side of the winding road. 

The car leaves muddy tracks in its wake as it pulls off the main stretch of highway, beginning to ascend the hill leading up to the compound. Chris runs his thumb along the curve of the steering wheel, lip stuck between his teeth as he squints through the front windshield. He’s running on about five hours of sleep, yet he’s as awake and on edge as ever. Years in this way of life can do that to a man.

He sees the sigil first, long before the building itself comes into focus: a flowing yellow banner with black ink woven into the silken fibers; the icon of a nameless warrior thrusting his sword through the throat of a man with the head of a wolf. The sigil is nailed to the thickest tree on the edge of the clearing, and as Chris pulls the car around the bend, the woodwork colossus slips into his line of sight. 

The compound is perched atop the hill in the center of the clearing, standing tall as the sole manmade structure in the midst of the leaves and rotten moss. Three massive boxes stacked on top of one another, largest on bottom, smallest on top. Unpainted, plain brown, but with the unmistakable influence of Japanese architecture in its shape and design. The bronze texture of the  double doors at the head of the front staircase stand out, surrounded by the dull color of carefully polished wood.

Chris yanks on the gearshift as he reaches the flat surface at the top of the hill, pulls the car into park. Stepping outside, he breathes in the overpowering smell of pine, of honeysuckle and of the river. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments, the rush of childhood memories coming back in strong waves.

“Just in time,” a voice calls, cutting through his wandering thoughts. He opens his eyes to see a lanky redheaded woman walking toward him from around the back of the building. Dark freckles pepper her cheeks and pointed nose, and her thin lips draw back in the most stilted of smiles. Her flaming locks are tied in a tight bun behind her head, black beret perched at an angle, brim dipping over her forehead. Her dark-gloved hands are clasped behind her back, and her boot-heels crunch down on the leaves as she strides ever closer.

Chris forces a small smile, nods in acknowledgment. “Carolyn,” he says, raises a hand, waves. “It’s been a while.”

“Long time,” she replies, dark green eyes flickering up and down the length of his body, studying him, judging him. “Very long time.” She jerks her head to the side, chin jutting out. “They’re inside.”

She turns, heading for the front door, and Chris follows quickly behind, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Who all is here?” he asks.

Carolyn rubs her wrist, and the squeaky sound of her fingers clenching inside her gloves makes Chris’ blood curdle. “Antoine and Jason. And your father, of course.”

Chris’ lips move silently as he thinks to himself, nods briefly.

Stepping up on the porch, Carolyn takes hold of the ring-shaped handle, pulls the door open. Entering together, Chris feels more than hears the wind being sucked out through the cracks as the door closes; like air being pulled forcibly out of a vacuum. The door slams, and they’re left alone in the deadly quiet of the main hall.

“Come along,” Carolyn says, not stopping for him to adjust to his surroundings. She heads out through the lodge area, rounding the bend to ascend the stairs. Chris follows, glancing back at the empty room; at the leather chairs and floral patterned sofa, and at the dusty bricks of the hearth before the empty fireplace and the long maroon countertop of the bar with its stain glass sign that reads _Live to Drink Another Day_.

Carolyn’s boots make a jarring noise on the staircase, and her hand grips the banister with a bizarre ferocity. As though she’s trying to strangle the life out of a stray cat found rummaging through a back alley dumpster.

Passing the second floor landing, Chris glances through the open door of one of the guest bedrooms. He sees a broad-shouldered blonde man sitting cross-legged on the off-white bedspread, hand tucked underneath his chin, brow furrowed as he scans the pages of a ragged book. The man looks up at the sound of their footsteps, dips his head in greeting. “Argent,” he says, gruff and impersonal.

“Jason,” Chris replies, nodding back. “Good to see you.”

The hunter doesn’t reply, just returns to his reading. Chris and Carolyn continue up to the third floor, turning left and entering into the observatory. 

Chris draws in a sharp breath, once again overpowered by memories. It’s eerie how untouched the place seems since his summers here as a teenager. The floors of the square room are unfurnished, covered only by a diamond pattern rug with frayed edges. A long glass case stands propped against the side wall, lined with guns and knives and swords and ancient relics of varying significance and value. The walls are decorated with various plaques and photographs, arranged in orderly fashion, one row after the other. 

There are two bookshelves pressed together in the corner by the wide window, and a glimmering silver axe hangs by hooks on the wall beside them. In the center of the room, a massive man sits in a rocking chair by the antique desk, legs propped up on the flat surface. His dark garb matches the charcoal color of his skin, and his soft brown eyes peer out under thick lashes to stare at Chris, study him carefully. 

“Where’s Gerard?” Carolyn asks, tone clipped, impatient. 

Antoine lowers his feet to the floor, clears his throat. Wordlessly, he tilts his head toward the window. 

Chris looks over the tall man’s shoulder, chest clenching up as he sees his father standing out on the balcony, back turned as he gazes out to survey the wilderness. He’s startled out of his reverie by a sharp elbow to the ribs. Carolyn gestures for him to go, to step outside.

The glass door slides open easily, and Chris can hear his father’s ragged breathing as he steps over to the railing, stands beside him.

“You came,” Gerard says, voice somewhat raspy, like he’s in serious need of a throat lozenge. 

Chris folds his hands together, looks out over the expanse of trees below, at the rapids bubbling white in the river, listening to the distant sound of running water and chattering winged creatures. “I came.”

Gerard sucks a wad of saliva in between his teeth and gums, purses his lips together as he spits over the railing. He smacks his lips noisily, teeth gritting together. “Didn’t think you would.”

The thrill of a whippoorwill echoes over the canopy. Chris takes a deep breath. “Didn’t see how I couldn’t.”

They stand in silence for a short time, shivering slightly in the crisp air as the wind picks up speed. Chris glances over his shoulder and through the smudged glass of the wall-length window. Antoine is sitting with his feet propped up again, arms folded and eyes closed. Carolyn is pacing back and forth, expression blank, staring at Chris unblinkingly.

“What do you think of the latest addition to our gallery?” Gerard asks suddenly, voice less strained, stronger. Chris turns his head back around to look at him.

“Hmmm?”

Gerard nods to the left, and Chris follows his line of sight. Set on top of a green coffee table, there is a decapitated head stuck to a panel of wood. A dark-haired man, frozen in a grimace of pain and rage, face halfway between the transformation into his Alpha form. Chris can see the jagged line down the center of the face where the dark fur had been beginning to spring up before the killing blow, can see the red hue of the man’s right eye, still giving off an eerie glowing effect.

“Thing of beauty isn’t it?” Gerard asks, a small smile of pride curling at the corners of his mouth. “That’s one hell of a story, I’ll tell you that much. One hell of a hunt. Wish you could have been there.”

Chris nods, mouth drawn into a thin line. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” he says tonelessly.

Gerard turns to look at him dead-on, eyebrows narrowed almost imperceptibly. “I’d like that,” he says, voice laden with sincerity. “I really would.”

They stare at each other for a moment, silently trying to read each other’s thoughts. Eventually, Gerard looks away, grunting as he pushes away from the railing and motions for Chris to follow him back inside. 

Antoine open one eye as the glass door slides open, gets to his feet slowly as the two men enter the room, stepping away so Gerard can sit at the desk. Carolyn ceases her relentless pacing, settling for leading against the wall in the corner by the weapons display, arms folded and face lowered in a brooding glare.

“Let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” Gerard suggests, sitting down heavily in his seat. He interlocks his fingers, tilting them into a steeple and resting his chin on his knuckles. “I think it’s high time Allison started her training. And as her grandfather, I’d like to be...intimately involved in that process. Show her the ropes, the tricks of the trade.”

Chris keeps his expression neutral, standing with his hands behind his back at the front of the desk, looking down at his father. “I see,” he says calmly.

Gerard’s eyes are practically boring holes into his, trying to see into his mind. “I’ve decided to abstain from the planned hunt in Wisconsin this year. I’ll be staying here for the summer. To help you train your daughter.” He spreads his palms wide, gestures vaguely around the room. “You both can stay here. Victoria as well, obviously. We can begin as soon as Allison finishes her spring semester.” His head tilts slightly, and he reaches up to scratch his chin. “How does that plan settle with you?”

There’s a long pause. The silence is so suffocating, Chris can actually hear the rhythmic ticking of Antoine’s wristwatch. “I’ll confess that I have some questions about a few things,” he eventually says.

Gerard shrugs, waves a dismissive hand. “By all means.”

Chris shifts his weight to his left side. “I’m not sure I understand the need for secrecy here. You couldn’t have said this to Victoria on the phone when you called? Why have me drive all the way up here?”

Gerard’s eyes flicker over Chris’ shoulder, briefly meeting Carolyn’s as they exchange an inscrutable look. “Well, I wanted to see you, for one thing. You’re my son, and it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.” He leans forward in his chair, drops his hands down to the surface of the desk. “Aside from that, I wasn’t certain how you would react. And I wanted to discuss this with you in person.”

Chris arches an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly framing this as a discussion. This feels more like orders.”

“Maybe it should,” Carolyn chimes in, haughty and scathing. Gerard glares at her, and she dips her head in submission, shuts up quietly.

“Perhaps I chose my words poorly,” Gerard says, silky smooth and deceptively kind. “Let me try again. What do you, Chris, think about the idea of coming up for the summer with your wife and daughter so that we might continue the tradition of our family’s legacy in proper fashion?”

Chris breathes out through his nose, air whistling. He feels tired, weary, and the ticking of Antoine’s wristwatch is starting to sound like a countdown. “If I’m being given an option,” he replies evenly, “I would like to respectfully decline your offer of assistance.”

Antoine snorts, lips curling back into a mocking sneer. He shakes his head, looks away to the window. Carolyn continues to brood silently.

Gerard remains unmoved, his face a perfect mask of outer calm. “And why is that?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.

“Allison’s training will commence when her mother and I feel the time is right,” Chis answers readily. “And _we_ will be the ones to train her. That is how it is generally done, yes? Parents pass on their skills and understanding to their children. You were trained by your father, just as Kate and I were schooled by you. I believe I have the right to assess my own qualifications for the rearing of my child.”

Gerard exchanges another glance with Carolyn, and this one seems decidedly nastier. It contains more unspoken intent and significance. He looks back to Chris, lips parting in white-toothed smirk. “You believe that, do you? You think you know what’s best for her?”

Chris lifts his chin in challenge, face stone-still as ever. “I do.”

Gerard stands slowly, comes around the side of the desk to stand beside his son, look him squarely in the eye. “Then why,” he murmurs, “did you lie to me about eradicating the werewolf presence in Beacon Hills?”

Chris feels a flare of panic inside his gut, and he can’t quite hide the twitch of his eyebrows. Judging by the flash of triumph in Gerard’s eyes, the old man didn’t miss the tell. “Excuse me?” Chris says, playing dumb even though he knows it’s useless.

“After Kate’s death,” Gerard continues, starting to circle Chris like a predator stalking its prey, “you told me that the Alpha had been destroyed. That the entire pack had been wiped out. That there were none left alive.” He pauses in his movements, leans in close to Chris’ ear. “And you lied,” he whispers.

Chris doesn’t move, standing rigid in place. He looks up to see Antoine slowly moving around to stand in front of the glass door leading to the balcony, surreptitiously cracking his knuckles. A dull thunk from behind alerts him to Carolyn stepping away from the corner, letting her hand trail over the surface of the glass case.

Gerard takes a step back, and Chris sees, with no small measure of surprise, that the man looks almost sad, betrayed. “Who are you protecting,” he asks quietly. “What has this Derek Hale done for you that warrants turning against your own kin?”

Chris closes his eyes, jaw tensing up. He shakes his head, lets out a soft, empty laugh. “He didn’t do anything,” he replies, opening his eyes. “This has nothing to do with him. This is about Allison. And her future.”

“Her future is with us,” Gerard cuts in sharply, eyes growing dark. “With her family.”

“What sort of hunter lets his child to enter the home of a known beast?” Carolyn chimes in, disgust clear in her tone and her expression. “What sort of father allows his daughter to be courted by a monster?”

Chris’ eyes narrow. “What?” he growls. Carolyn smirks.

“Don’t bother denying it. We’ve seen the evidence ourselves. I tailed her personally, tracked her movements. Don’t pretend like you didn’t _know_.”

Chris opens his mouth to respond, but Gerard interrupts. “We just want to know why,” he says. “Why you’ve let this poison infect your household.”

Chris’ fists clench at his sides, and it takes all of his willpower not to lash out, not to beat the face before him into a bloody pulp. “I’ve resigned myself to this way of life,” he grits out. “Victoria, too. We understood the risks, we knew the costs, and we made the decision anyway. Because we wanted to protect our fellow man from evil. And whatever mistakes I’ve made in my work, I haven’t done a single thing that has kept me from sleeping at night.” He takes a step forward, looks down into his father’s eyes. “But that was _my_ choice. This is _my_ life. And it’s not the life Allison wants. It’s not the life she has to have. It was different for us, Dad. Surely you can see that-”

“She was born into this!” Gerard roars, all pretension of civility tossed aside in the face of blind rage. His face if flushed, suffused with heat and redness, veins bulging in his neck. “The world isn’t going to change just because you want it to! You can’t ignore the existence of the threat just because it’s inconvenient to your hopes and dreams! We are on a _path_ , you ignorant boy.”

“She has a chance,” Chris replies, anger draining out of him completely, giving way to exhaustion. “She has a chance at a normal life. And if she wants to follow in our footsteps, I will be there to help her every step of the way. But I can’t _force_ her to-”

“ _Yes_. Yes you can.” Gerard backs away, runs his hand through his white hair, fingers raking across his scalp. “You are her father. Be a _man_.”

Chris opens his mouth, closes it. He takes a slow, quiet breath. “I am.” 

Gerard laughs harshly, a grotesque and discordant sound. “Your daughter is in bed with the beasts,” he snarls. “ _Literally_. You must get your house in order.”

“My daughter is safe,” Chris says. “My daughter is happy. And don’t you dare suggest that those things don’t matter to me.”

Gerard looks at him, shakes his head wonderingly. “You were always the weak one,” he spits. And it’s a cheap shot, spoken in anger, but the words still sting. “Your sister was a good girl.”

Chris’ eyes grow dark, brow lined with wrinkles. “Kate violated the code. She killed innocents.”

“She took initiative,” Gerard dismisses. “She did what you never had the stomach for.”

Chris bites down on his tongue, toes curling in his shoes. “She brought her fate upon herself,” he murmurs.

Gerard’s eyes widen, and he fall silent.

The ticking of the wristwatch intones like the beat of a tiny metronome, sounding out in repetition. Antoine stands by the door, still as a statue, face blanked out and unreadable. Carolyn’s hand twitches, fingers drumming quietly on the glass case.

“Nothing will change your mind?” Gerard asks, voice weirdly steady. “Nothing will bring you back?”

Chris backs away from him, folds his arms across his chest. “If by ‘bring me back,’ you mean ‘return to your way of thinking,’ then no. I don’t see that ever happening.”

Gerard nods, turns away. He runs a hand through his hair, clears his throat, walking towards the exit. Chris lets his hand drift downward, slowly and carefully, eyes darting between Antoine and Carolyn. Gerard stops at the door, looks back. “That’s that then,” he says coldly. And he shuts the door.

Carolyn moves first, flipping the glass back and reaching in to seize the sharpest dagger. Chris yanks his pistol out from its hiding place, tucked in his waistband behind his back. He raises the gun and pulls back the hammer, taking aim. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a glint of metal, and he drops to the floor instinctively, dives in front of the desk.

Antoine takes fire, and the bullets slam into the paneled floor where Chris was standing, leaving black holes in the woodwork. Chris hooks his fingers underneath the desk, rising up and overturning it with all of his might. The antique piece isn’t nearly as heavy as he expected, and it flies forward easily, slamming into Antoine’s chest and knocking the man backwards into the window. The glass cracks behind the massive man, and the gun drops out of his hand to the floor.

Chris whirls around, just in time to see Carolyn’s hand come swinging down, her teeth bared and eyes blazing. He jolts out of the way, but the knife lodges deep in his forearm, red juices gushing forth and dripping to the ground in copious splatters. He bellows in agony, and his gun drops with a clatter to the ground. Carolyn kicks it away, twists the knife with a snarl. Chris jerks his knee up to knock her in the stomach, swings his uninjured arm around to punch her squarely in the face.

His fist connects with her nose, and he hears the bone break, feels the warmth of her blood squirting out through her nostrils and spraying droplets all over his knuckles. She staggers away, hands coming up to clutch at her face, groaning. Chris’ eyes turn wet with moisture, and he hisses in pain as he wrenches the dagger free from his arm, charges forward to push Carolyn to the floor.

Her back hits the ground with a resounding thwack, and he hears her breath catch in her chest as he drives the knife home, straight to the center of her chest. Her eyes go wide in surprise, and then roll back into her head her body goes limp.

Chris rises to his feet shakily, turning around as Antoine slams into him, throws him against the wall. He yelps, vision whiting out briefly as his skull cracks against the plaster, and he slides to the floor in a crumpled heap. He feels the vibrations of Antoine’s footsteps charging forward, and acting on instinct, he kicks out blindly, foot connecting directly with the larger man’s kneecap.

Antoine howls, and Chris hears the distinctive sound of cracking bone as his sight returns to him. He sees Antoine lying on the floor, clutching his knee, face twisted in rage. 

He scrambles away, panting from the sheer exertion of movement, trembling as the blood flows freely from the wound in his forearm. Antoine snatches out furiously, grabs hold of his ankle and tries to yank him back. Chris kicks out helplessly, once, twice, hitting nothing. He kicks again, heel smacking into Antoine’s chin. The man bites down hard on his tongue, drawing blood, and he yelps, releasing his iron grasp.

Chris rolls away, strains his arm to grab Antoine’s revolver. He whips around, fires three times in rapid succession. The first two bullets miss by a wide margin, ricocheting off the far wall. The third hits Antoine directly between the eyes, and the back of his head explodes, spraying gunk and brain matter out in a geyser of red. Dark liquid begins to pool around his corpse, and he stares back at Chris with dead, empty eyes.

Rising to his feet, shaking with fear and anger and adrenaline, Chris looks down at the gun in his hand, tests its weight. Out of ammo.

He looks around wildly, brain running at a mile a minute. Unable to spot his own gun, he limps over to the wall, detaches the axe from its hooks. He hears movements downstairs, drags himself towards the door, arm practically soaking now, shaking violently. 

Standing at the edge of the landing, he looks over the banister cautiously, listens. The light from the doorway to Jason’s room is gone now, and the second floor is cloaked in darkness. Chris grimaces, fishes in his pocket with his unharmed hand, pulls out a quarter and tosses it down the stairs.

It lands with a clink, and Chris sees the flash of a muzzle from the darkness from below, hears the blast of a shotgun. Thinking quickly, taking careful aim, he hefts the axe up high and swings it down, letting go and allowing the weapon to spin downward in free fall. He hears a sickening thwack, followed by a clatter and a thud.

He grips the banister, groaning, descends the stairs as quickly as possible. Reaching the first floor, he sees Jason sprawled in twisted formation, his shotgun lying at his feet. The axe is lodged in his neck, handle sticking up at an angle, jiggling in a macabre dance as the blonde hunter gurgles wordlessly, spitting up blood. Chris bends down slowly, picks up the shotgun. Jason’s mouth works uselessly, his eyes staring into Chris’.

Chris looks at him for a moment, then raises the gun, fires.

 

**XI.**

Gerard is standing outside the house as the firefight takes place. In the space of silence following the final shotgun blast, a deep sense of unease rises up in the pit of his stomach. He tucks his gun underneath his arm, sticks his hand down into his pocket to search for his car keys.

And then the front doors swing open.

He freezes, looks up to see Chris standing in silhouette, drenched in blood, carrying Jason’s shotgun.

They stare at each other, neither one of them moving.

Slowly, jerkily, Chris descends the front steps, barrel raised to aim at Gerard’s chest. His  mouth twitches furiously, face torn between warring emotions of grief and anger, fury and devastation, loss and weariness.

Gerard blinks, glances down at the gun tucked uselessly under his arm. He looks up to meet Chris’ gaze. He clears his throat, lets out a mirthless little laugh. “Well...Jesus, Chrissy,” he says, impressed. He lifts his palms in silent surrender, smiles.

Chris coughs, a strangled noise that could almost be mistaken for a sob. 

And then he fires.

The bullet rips through Gerard’s neck, tears a hole straight through the muscle and tissue. The old man chokes, eyes going wide for a split second. He staggers back, clutches at the gaping wound, then drops forward, crumples.

Chris lets the shotgun fall out of his grip, drop to the leaves beside his dead father. He tilts his head back, holding his gushing arm as he looks to the sky. 

The moon is bright tonight.


	8. nothing stays buried

**I.**

Stuttered breath: a boozed up redhead swallowing back the stale beer, choking on the white froth at the rim of the plastic cup as her dark-haired friend tells a particularly uproarious joke, tossing back her head to laugh and regain her composure, pale expanse of perfume-scented neck exposed in the glow of the neon bar sign. A gaggle of twenty-somethings, floundering about at the center of the slicked down dance floor, grinding together: intent ranging from friendly jest to straight-faced flirtation with hopes of a back room fuck, legs intertwining with every movement as their heels click and slide on the polished tile. Green and red and yellow beacons above, shining down in rapidly flickering bursts of color as the strobe lights glare down through the haze of electric blue mist hissing out of the smoke machine vents along the black curtained walls lit by glow-in-the-dark spray paint graffiti patterns. 

The speaker system blares all around, and the woofers tremor as the low frequencies thrum low and deep. The music pounds out, off-kilter beat drumming in Jackson’s ears:

_All the other kids with the pumped up kicks_

_You better run, better run, outrun my gun_

_All the other kids with the pumped up kicks_

_You better run, better run, faster than my bullet..._

Shouldering through the tight press of people in the club, Jackson makes his way to the bar, flashes his fake ID. The bartender narrows her eyes at him, mouth pursed distastefully, looking him over. The flashing lights glint off her silver nose ring, illuminate the sparkle green of her generously applied eyeshadow. Jackson lifts an eyebrow in challenge, poker face unchanging. She eventually just shrugs, clearly doesn’t give a damn.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, voice uncommonly deep, gravelly and strained from hours of shouting over the music.

“Screwdriver,” Jackson says, points at the grey bottle of vodka on the shelf behind her.

She nods, scoops up a smudged glass from the rack down below. “You got it.”

Jackson swivels around in his stool to lean against the bar, hands splayed out on the surface of the counter. He scans the room, pausing as he spies the girls standing in the far corner.

They’re shoulder to shoulder in the shadows, matching white-toothed grins gleaming in the purple disco spotlight. A couple of older guys are pressing in close, chatting them up, trying their best to look sexy and confident and interesting. From where Jackson’s standing, they just look like raging tools, but the girls take the attention in stride. Lydia is flirting openly, batting her eyelashes and speaking in that whispered voice and husky tone that used to make Jackson’s head spin ‘round in circles. Allison is just sipping at her lemonade, nodding politely and keeping her admirer at a comfortable distance, practically radiating with the _Sorry, I’m taken_ vibe.

“Looks like they’re having fun,” Scott shouts over the music, sidling up beside Jackson and hopping up on the adjacent stool.

Jackson forks over several bills as the bartender sets his drink down, tells her to keep the change. He looks at Scott, swallows back a third of the glass. “If you say so.”

Scott eyes the glass interestedly, cocks an eyebrow. “You do know that’s not going to have much of an effect anymore, right? One of the downsides of being...” - he glances around - “...you know. What we are.”

“I know.” Jackson smirks, drains the rest in one gulp. He smacks the glass down on the counter, nods for a refill. “But I’m not trying to get hammered. I like the taste.”

Scott waits until the bartender has refilled the glass and left before replying. “I think you’ve just got authority issues. Get your kicks from passing yourself off as an adult?”

Jackson’s smirk widens. “Of course, McCall. You caught me. Because there’s nothing thrilling going on in my life. Nothing to speak of besides sneaking into night clubs and ordering drinks.”

Scott blinks dumbly for a moment, then laughs, mouth slanting into an appreciative smile. “Point taken,” he concedes.

Up on the stage, the DJ flips several switches on the soundboard, cranking up the music to a near-deafening volume. Scott winces, brings a hand up to his ear to block out the noise. Jackson’s lip curls in distaste. The dancers on the floor move as one, a sea of gyration and grinding under the epileptic flash-bang spotlights. Lydia is talking animatedly now, eyes gleaming with the sort of malicious glee that suggests she’s taking great pleasure in verbally decimating her would-be suitor. Allison stands to the side, sipping away at her drink, trying to hide her smile behind her hand as she listens in on Lydia’s tirade.

Jackson nudges Scott’s shoulder, nods in the DJ’s direction. “Sunglasses at night,” he drawls. “Very _CSI: Miami_ , don’t you think?”

Scott snorts, rolls his eyes. “Hey, I’m not the one who picked this place. Totally the girls’ idea.”

“So...Lydia’s idea, then?” Jackson suggests. Scott grins.

“Lydia’s idea,” he agrees.

 

**II.**

All squashed together in the Porsche on the drive back through the suburban roadways, Scott’s head lolls sleepily against the passenger’s side window, face cast half in shadow in the glare of the passing streetlights. Jackson glances over every now and then, expression blank, nodding to make Lydia think he’s listening to her story.

“And then he said - like _actually_ said, with no irony - that he wanted to ‘ride my magic carpet.’ I mean...” Lydia snorts, shakes her head. “Can you believe that? Do guys seriously think that shit works?"

Allison giggles into her hand, wipes away tears of mirth. She leans her head on Lydia’s shoulder, stifling her laughter against her friend’s skin. “Oh my God...I’ve gotten some bad lines before, but that was just _incredible_.”

Lydia pokes the back of Jackson’s head, startling him out of his private musings. “Hey, are you listening?”

Jackson glances over his shoulder, grunts. “Uh huh. Bad pick-up lines, I heard you.”

“Most guys don’t actually think that stuff is suave,” Scott mumbles peacefully, face still pressed against the window, eyes shut. “At least, I don’t think so. Although you never know, I guess.” He opens one eye, fixes Jackson with a lazy stare. “What about you? I bet you’ve got a ton of one-liners in the memory bank.”

“Yeah right.” Jackson looks at Lydia in the mirror, mouth twisting into a cocky sneer. “Guys like me don’t need tricks to get laid.”

Allison starts laughing again, and Lydia rolls her eyes, reaches around the driver’s seat to pat Jackson’s shoulder. “Yes, yes. You’re very pretty, Jackson.”

Scott chuckles, ignores Jackson’s withering glare. Allison flips her hair back over her shoulder, sucks on the inside of her cheek. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think the whole idea isn’t so much about trying to act suave. I think it’s more likely that guys actually _want_ to come off as somewhat dorky. Like they’re hoping it will make them more endearing to us.”

Jackson frowns. “That’s a stupid theory,” he says rudely. Lydia waves a dismissive hand.

“Actually, I think she’s got a point.”

Scott hums agreeably. “Sounds right to me.”

Lydia sighs dramatically, wraps her arm companionably around Allison’s shoulder, threading her fingers in her hair. “I wish Stiles could have come with us. He would have had a good laugh at all of this.”

Allison nods, covering her mouth as she yawns. “Yeah, why didn’t he?”

“He went to the movies with Derek,” Scott replies. He opens his eyes briefly, glances over his shoulder. He grins at the girls’ dumbfounded expressions, settles back down in his seat. “I know, right? Can you _imagine_ what their dates must be like?”

Lydia shakes her head wonderingly. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall...” She meets Allison’s eye, and they stare at each other thoughtfully for a moment, quickly dissolving into borderline hysterical giggling. 

“I’m just picturing them at dinner, or something,” Allison breathes out, hiccuping, clutching her sides. “Derek sitting at one end of the table, scowling. Stiles at the other end, talking about comic books.”

Lydia covers her mouth, shoulders shaking. “I’m thinking _Lady and the Tramp_. Stiles pushing a meatball over to Derek’s side of the plate with his nose! Chewing on the same string of spaghetti!”

Allison loses it, trying unsuccessfully to smother her laughter with her sleeve. Jackson zones out as the girls continue to chatter in the back. It’s strange - having the taste of alcohol on his breath, feeling it flooding his system without the hinderance of sensory deprivation. He swipes his tongue over a dry lower lip, blinks hard in the glare of an oncoming truck’s lights. The passing headlamps beam in through the windshield, reveal the scattered pattern of smudges across the glass. Jackson flips the switch and releases the wiper fluid, gazes at the trees in the dark through the trickling stream of wetness being swept away into nothing by the curved blades. Lydia’s voice drones on, rattling around in his inner ear. He looks over, lets his eyes drift over Scott’s semi-unconscious form, snapping his attention back to the road as another car speeds by.

“My dad’s been acting off all week,” he hears Allison whisper as he falls back into the conversation. She’s not laughing anymore. “Ever since he got back from his trip.”

“To see your grandfather?” Lydia queries, and Allison makes a soft sound of affirmation.

Scott perks up, squinting blearily. He glances over the top of the seat, blinks owlishly at his girlfriend. “Your hunter grandfather?”

Allison nods grimly. “He hasn’t said anything about what happened, and I haven’t asked. Mom’s being weird, too. I think something might be happening soon.”

Lydia clips a barrette in her hair, brushing her bangs aside. She frowns thoughtfully, grinding her teeth together. “We should probably say something to Derek.”

Jackson grunts, nods. “I’m going over to his place tomorrow. I’ll bring it up.”

Scott turns his head, looks at Jackson curiously. “What are you two doing?”

“Who, Derek and me?” Jackson asks, eyebrow raised. “Just talking business. My dad wants him to look over some papers for the store.”

That answer seems to satisfy Scott, who rolls back over and leans his chair into recline. Jackson turns to focus on the road ahead, keeps his eyes glued to the dotted yellow line stretching out into the dark infinite, tuning out the white noise of conversation in the backseat.

He breathes in deep, picks up the fading smell of shampoo and sweat, and of flushed skin, of bristling energy. He chances another glance to the seat beside him, looks over Scott once more. 

He swallows thickly, looks away.

 

**III.**

They drop Allison off first, and she waves from the front porch, gives the thumbs up to indicate that the door is unlocked.

Lydia is second, and she steps around the side to tap on the glass, stands with her hands on her hips until Jackson rolls down the window. She leans in, presses a quick kiss to his cheek, waggles her fingers at Scott. “Night, boys.”

Jackson yawns in response, nods wordlessly. He pulls the car into drive, starts off down the road. Looking in the rearview mirror, he spies Lydia, just visible in the glow of the porch light as she scales the side wall to her bedroom window, slips in without a sound. Turning back to the street ahead, he hears the crinkling of an old bag of chips underneath Scott’s feet as the boy stretches his legs out, wedges his knees up against the dashboard.

“Shoes off,” Jackson says blankly. Scott looks at him, bemused. Jackson shoots a pointed look at Scott’s heels, propped up on the edge of his seat. 

Scott lowers his feet for a moment, kicks his shoes off. “Better?”

Jackson reaches for the radio dial. “Much,” he mutters.

It’s too late to find anything of quality on the limited variety of stations; just a bunch of shitty 80s funk and a couple of talk shows featuring old men yelling at each other. They settle for classical music - Beethoven, Scott thinks - and Jackson turns the volume down low, barely audible over the crackle of the strained reception.

The wind is strong outside, and the trees rustle noisily along the sides of the road: a vast expanse of varying shades of greens and yellows twitching in arhythmic motion, strung together in clumps, clinging tightly to swaying branches stretching out like the jagged claws of some ancient creature from long forgotten times. Scott breathes on his window, rubs the glass with the sleeve of his shirt. He scratches the back of his head, twisting his fingers in his shaggy hair. 

“Fun night,” he comments. Jackson’s mouth twitches irritably.

“If you say so.”

Scott cracks his knuckles, lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asks, trying to sound polite instead of condescending, knowing Jackson will probably take offense either way. “You didn’t have a good time?”

“It was fine.” Jackson raps his fingers on the steering wheel, ducks his head to wipe his nose on his shoulder. He sniffs. “Not terrible, not great. It was okay.”

Scott shrugs, looks out the window to watch the passing scenery, looks to the slight sliver of moon peering through the dark wisps of cloud. A minute passes. He frowns, rubs his wrist absently. “You’re never really happy, are you?”

Jackson starts, turns to stare at him. “What?”

“You’re not happy.” Scott doesn’t meet his eye, stares fixedly at a spot on the car floor. “Which, you know, is totally fine, I guess. People don’t have to be happy all the time, and even when they are, they don’t have to be all smiles and sunshine, or whatever. But you just...I dunno. You don’t seem to enjoy... _anything_ , really.”

Jackson stares at him for a moment or so, huffs out a little laugh. His mouth quirks up into a perplexed smirk. “Huh.”

Scott looks up. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Jackson murmurs, turning to look straight forward, hands gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly. “I just said something similar to Derek recently. It’s funny, that’s all.”

There’s an overturned wheelbarrow on the side of the room, mulch and wood chips spilling out from the tears in the overstuffed bags hanging over the lip. The front wheel is lodged deep in the muck, and the twin handles stick upright like the poles of spears in the dirt. A forest beast yelps in the distance; a stilted, shrieking sound followed quickly by a low snarl. The boys perk up, listen. The woods fall silent.

The car’s engine hums in monotone continuum, and Scott scratches at the armrest on the side of his seat, worries his lip between his teeth as he stares at a fingerprint on the window.

“It’s not true,” Jackson says abruptly, startling Scott out of his listless musings.

“What?”

He swears he can see Jackson’s eye twitch. “I’m happy. Not _now_ , necessarily. But in general, yeah. I’m fine.”

Scott blinks. “Oh. Well...okay. Uh, that’s good then. Right?”

The car passes underneath the row of stoplights at the intersection, and Jackson’s face glows green for a split second, eyes flashing gold in the glare. He breathes out through his nose, air whistling softly. “Yeah.”

The McCall house is dark when the Porsche pulls up to the curb and comes to a halt beside the crooked mailbox. If the empty driveway is any indicator, Melissa is probably working a late shift at the hospital. The porch lantern flickers at the upper right corner of the front door.

Jackson turns the car off, lets the key dangle in the ignition. He settles back in his chair, stretches.

Scott looks out the window at the house. “Alright then,” he says. Jackson nods.

“Yep.”

There’s a heady scent in the air inside the vehicle, something Scott can’t quite identify. He squirms uncomfortably, grips the armrests, fingernails scratching the leather. He hears Jackson’s breathing hitch, lifts his head expectantly. The boy’s stare is intense, focused, apprehensive. His jaw is clenched tight, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat with a thick, audible swallow.

Scott bites his tongue, toes curling inside his socks. “I guess I should go, yeah?”

Jackson shrugs stiffly. “If you want.”

Scott’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “If I want?”

“That’s what I said.”

The silence drags. The crickets out in the garden are starting up their off-key chorus, chirping loudly in the dark, sound intermingling with the occasional trilling of an owl’s night call.

“I don’t...” Scott starts, trailing off. He sighs. “What is this, Jackson? I’m not sure what your deal is here.” He studies the other boy’s expression carefully, matches his steady gaze. Hesitantly, “Is this about...that day we-”

“It isn’t,” Jackson interrupts, tone clipped, dismissive.

Scott unbuckles his seatbelt, looks down at his shoes on the floor. “Really? Because if that’s not it, then I don’t understand why you’re so...I...” He runs his fingers through his hair, makes a quiet noise of frustration. “Just tell me what your issue is, dude. Whatever it is, we need to _deal_ with it. We’re pack now.”

Jackson opens his mouth to retort - probably something nasty, scathing by the look of it - but he clamps it shut after a moment or so, turns away to stare at his lap. “This is so stupid,” he mutters, huffs out a humorless little laugh. “This is - I mean, we’re not even friends. I don’t even fucking _like_ you.”

Scott feels a weird twinge in his chest at the words, blinks in surprise. It’s a careless remark, the sort of throwaway insult Jackson gives away like candy, so it really shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. “Did I do something to piss you off?” he asks, not entirely succeeding in keeping the anger out of his voice.

“Nothing,” Jackson replies, and when he looks up, his mouth is twisted into the self-satisfied smirk that’s starting to become his permanent look. “Nothing at all.”

Something inside just _breaks_ , and Scott lashes out, reaches forward to haul Jackson forward, fingers curling around the boy’s throat, lengthening into claws. Scott’s eyes flash dangerously, teeth bared in a snarl. “I’m fucking sick of this. I’m finished with your shit, understand?” His grip tightens, and Jackson coughs weakly, reaching up to try and pry his fingers away. “Now, you are going to _tell me_ what your problem is. Right now.”

Jackson’s eyes are glowing as well, and his breathing is staggered, coming out in strangled rasps as his throat strains in Scott’s iron grasp. His neck flushes red, skin burning hot, fear and arousal rolling off of him in waves. 

The scent fills Scott’s nostrils, and his eyes widen in shock, fingers loosening. Seizing the opportunity, Jackson bats his hand away, unsheathes his claws to grab Scott’s shoulders and slam him back into the passenger’s side door. Still dumbfounded, Scott reacts instinctively, leaps forward and pins Jackson to his seat, straddles his waist to hold him down. He winces at the loud crack as the driver’s seat snaps back into recline, and Jackson chokes as the pressure of Scott’s knee on his chest knocks the wind out of him.

Jackson reaches up, trying to scratch the other werwolf’s face, but Scott just raises his other knee to press down hard, takes his hands and grabs Jackson by the wrists, effectively pinning him.

“Get off me!” Jackson snarls, although he sounds far more frightened than angry. Scott grits his teeth together, growls, and Jackson flinches away, baring his neck in submission.

Scott looks down at him, swallows. He can smell everything, can practically _taste_ the wretched scents of terror and desire, and he registers it all as a shock to the system. Because he _never_ thinks of Jackson like this: sprawled out beneath him, vulnerable and pliant, ready for the taking. He’s never cared about the way Jackson’s lips look to be permanently stained with blood, full and red and dangerously soft. Never wondered what it would be like to cover the boy’s mouth with his own, lick inside, nip at that tender flesh. 

But now such thoughts are rushing to the forefront of his mind, increasingly feverish fantasies warring with each other for attention. And he finds his body moving on its own accord, looks down to see his knee working its way down to press into Jackson’s groin, spread his legs apart.

Jackson goes rigid, the light in his eyes receding to full-blown panic. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

His voice is rough, torn between fear and lust, and the noise sends a thrill down Scott’s spine. “I don’t...you...”

Scott’s hips snap forward, pressing his body flush against Jackson’s. 

Jackson lets out a strangled groan, eyes fluttering shut. His lips part, shaping into an O, and he’s just so fucking _pretty_ like this. It’s obscene. Scott doesn’t even think, just dives forward and licks up the length of Jackson’s jaw, right up from his chin to his cheek. 

“You just - you, _fuck_ -” Jackson writhes underneath him, whimpers. They’re both getting hard, and they can smell it on each other - can sense each other’s arousal.

Scott shudders, buries his face in the curve of Jackson’s neck. “Let me inside,” he growls, and it’s the animal talking now. All human instincts are buried beneath the ceaseless tide of need and pent-up frustration. “I need to fuck you, let me, _please_. Say yes.”

Jackson looks like he’s about to hyperventilate, chest hitching up and down in frantic, jerky movements. He licks his lips, trembles slightly. “I...” he starts, falters.

“ _Let me_.” Scott opens his mouth against Jackson’s neck, tightens his grip on the other boy’s wrists. “Say yes.”

Jackson’s eyes flash briefly, and he freezes as Scott pulls away to gauge his reaction. His mouth slowly slants up at the side, nose crinkling as his trademark smug leer slides into place. Clearing his throat, he bares his neck again, opens his legs wider in wordless  consent.

It’s all Scott needs.

He releases Jackson’s wrists, hooks his hand in the waistband of his jeans, working at the button and unzipping his fly. “Brace yourself,” he murmurs hoarsely, scrabbling at Jackson’s belt, pulling it free and tossing it aside.

Jackson flinches, realizing what he’s talking about. “Wait. I don’t have any - there’s no...” He swallows. “Nothing to use.”

Scott grunts indifferently. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll do it raw.”

“What?!” Jackson tenses up, looks about five seconds away from a complete freakout. “No fucking way! _No_.”

Scott’s eyes grow dark, and he leans in to capture Jackson mouth with his own. And then they’re _kissing_ \- actually kissing - and Jackson makes a quiet sound that isn’t quite human, not entirely wolf. Scott pulls away, biting at the corner of Jackson’s mouth. “No?” he questions.

Jackson closes his eyes, breathes heavily. He lets the tension drain out of his shoulders, tries to slow his heartbeat. “Yes,” he relents grudgingly. “Just...okay. Yeah.”

His brain seems to go fuzzy for the first bit of it, can’t quite think past the flesh-to-flesh contact and the ragged panting and slick sounds and sharp pain that rips through him like a white-hot knife. He’s stuck in a daze with his cheek pressed up into the leather of the chair, sweat prickling in beads at the nape of his neck, groaning louder with every thrust, trying to stifle the noise by shoving his fist against his mouth.

He doesn’t snap out of his stupor until Scott jerks back and accidentally smacks against the car horn, and the irritating blare shatters the intensity of the moment. Jackson gasps - fucking _whines_ \- as Scott bucks into him, slipping in and out with a sort of wild abandon. “Hurts,” he chokes out, hating himself for betraying his weakness.

Scott’s hand comes down to cup around the side of his neck, fingers brushing up and down in soothing motions. “You’re okay,” he hisses, still rocking forward. “You’re fine.” 

And he sounds so very nearly human in that moment, Jackson actually relaxes, eases into the pain and lets himself experience it all - every sensation, all of it together in quick flashes of pleasure and feeling.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, can’t even begin to form an accurate perception. But it _does_ eventually end, and he shudders in revulsion and morbid amazement as Scott reaches climax, spills inside of him in hot bursts.

“Jesus!” Scott gasps, sliding out of him and slumping against the window, rolling over as best he can to give Jackson room to move. “I don’t...ugh. Jesus...”

Jackson shifts slightly, winces. “That’s what they call me,” he says lightly, privately pleased that his voice doesn’t waver.

Scott barks, surprised into laughter. He wipes his brow, ducking his head to catch his breath. “That was...”

“Yeah.” Jackson grits his teeth against the pain as he reaches down to pull his pants up from around his ankles, shivers at the coolness of Scott’s release drying against his skin. 

They lie in silence for a short time, and the sound of their breathing slowly steadies, evening out and becoming overshadowed by the chatter of wildlife outside the confines of the car.

Jackson tries to move again, and he can’t quite bite back the groan. Scott looks at him sharply, forehead creasing with worry. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Jackson dismisses, scratching the back of his head. His shirt is rucked up all the way to his neck, exposing his chest and stomach, and a narcissistic thrill runs up his spine at the way Scott’s eyes stray over the bare skin. “I think you broke my chair, though. So thanks for that.”

The boy’s dark eyebrows knit together, and Jackson can see the wheels spinning in his head, can see reality slowly sinking in as the wolf subsides and gives way to reason, to rationality. “You... _did_ want it, right?” Scott asks, somewhat stilted, like he’s terrified that the answer might be no. 

And for a brief moment, Jackson considers going that route, just to fuck with him. But ultimately it seems a bit too cruel, even by his standards. “Obviously,” he says. “Do you really think it would have happened otherwise?” 

Scott doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway, eyes darting around. He licks his lip, swallows. “Jesus,” he mutters.

“You said that,” Jackson yawns, stretching out lazily, rolling on his side to face Scott, pulling his shirt back down to his waist.

Scott groans, covers his face. “Fuck me...” Jackson grins, opens his mouth - voice dying in his throat at Scott’s pointed glare. “Don’t even joke, man. This is really bad. I just cheated on Allison.” He makes a pained noise, annoyance draining away, replaced with guilt. “Fuck, I can’t believe I cheated on her. With _you_.”

Jackson straightens slowly, brushes a thin layer of dust off the dashboard. The smell of sex is still palpable in the air, and he lifts the keys out of his pocket, turns on the car and rolls down the windows to let in the night chill. “I’m not going to tell her if that makes it better,” he remarks, dripping with sarcasm.

Scott scoots closer, takes hold of Jackson’s shoulders. “This can’t happen again,” he says, enunciating every word forcefully. “I don’t...I have know idea what this was about. I don’t _do_ stuff like this-”

“What, have sex?” Jackson interrupts. “You and Allison just play checkers, is that it?”

Scott glares. “Be serious. You know what I mean.” His hands drift downward, squeeze Jackson’s biceps lightly. He pulls away, leans up against the window. “This was a mistake,” he says carefully, as if he’s approaching a wounded animal in the forest. Like he’s trying to let Jackson down easy.

Jackson looks away. “Yeah,” he says tonelessly. Scott prods him in the arm, keeps poking until he turns to meet his eye. 

“Really, though. I need to know that this isn’t going to fuck everything up.”

Jackson snorts. “I already said I wouldn’t tell her, loser.”

Scott shakes his head. “That’s not enough. I need things to be okay between you and me.” He bites his lip. “You said we’re not friends, and maybe that’s true. But I want us to be. I want to be closer. I think of Stiles like a brother, and I want that with you, too.”

Taken aback, Jackson’s eyes flicker down to the V of Scott’s collar where the light sheen of sweat shines on his chest in the starlight. He looks back up, smirks. “Make a habit of fucking your brothers, McCall?”

Scott draws in a sharp breath, expression clouding up with shame and confusion. He leans forward, and for a moment, Jackson thinks he’s going in for a kiss. But no - he’s going for his shoes, stuffed together in the corner of the passenger’s side. Pulling back, Scott wrenches the door open, steps outside with his shoes in hand. He starts marching towards the house.

“McCall,” Jackson says. Scott doesn’t turn around. Jackson sighs. “Scott.”

Scott stops, shoulders tensing up. He looks over his shoulder, face blanked out, unreadable. “Yes?”

Jackson opens his mouth, closes it. Clears his throat. “Remember, we have that thing with Danny on Tuesday. So...don’t forget.”

Scott looks away. “I’ll be there.”

The windows roll up, and the car pulls away from the curb, making a u-turn at the end of the cul-de-sac and speeding off into the night. Scott hears the screech of the tires at the intersection, lets out a quiet breath as the sound fades into the distance. 

Slipping quietly inside, he shuts the front door behind him, leaves it unlocked for his mother. He bangs his head gently against the wooden frame and closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

 

**IV.**

The station is quiet as usual. The mechanical ringing of the landline at the front desk and the muted beeps of the fax machines by the coffee maker blend together in a droning of white noise.

The sheriff sifts through the weekend’s paperwork, signing off on overtime forms and transfer requests, scanning through various departmental complaints.

He punches the intercom button at the intonation of the buzzer. “Yes, Suzanne?”

“Patrick Lundegaard on line 2, sir.”

He nods absently, pops the cap back on his pen. “Thank you, put him through.” He waits with the phone to his ear, fiddling with the cord. Through the open door of his office, he can see Officer Martinez taking a robbery suspect down the hallway from booking, down to the interrogation room. The man’s hands are stained with black ink from fingerprinting, eyes downcast as he strains uselessly at his handcuffs. The reception clicks to life, and the sheriff is greeted with a gruff hello. “Hey there, Patrick. What can I do for you?”

There’s a moment’s pause - the sound of coughing and the rustling of papers. “Ahem. Excuse me there, I’m just getting over a nasty cold.”

The sheriff grins, playing with his pen. “I’m right there with you. Finally back in the saddle after a case of the flu.”

Patrick chuckles. “Been going around even down there, eh? Well, anyway. I’m just giving you a call about that favor you asked a while back. The background check on a...” - he flips through a series of pages, mumbles to himself - “...Chris Argent. Sound familiar?”

The sheriff straightens in his chair. “Yes. Yes it does. You got a hit then?”

A cough. “Well, not exactly, no. I actually ran the name through our database a day or two after you first asked, and nothing came up. Nada. But I wanted to be thorough with the damn thing - after all, a favor is a favor, and you don’t ask for ‘em very often - so I dug a little deeper.”

Suzanne pokes her head in through the door, gestures at the coffee maker. The sheriff shakes his head, waves for her to shut the door. “So what did you find?”

“I’ll tell you what, the timing was damn near perfect. Just a quick cursory search, and whaddya know: the name ‘Argent’ brings up all these nonsense rumors about some sorta death cult out in Oregon. And I thought that seemed a bit weird, obviously, so I made a few calls to a couple of my FBI buddies over in that area.”

The sheriff drums his fingers on the surface of his desk, grits his teeth impatiently. “Alright, so what’s the scoop?”

“You’re not going to believe this. Turns out that a certain _Gerard_ Argent is a vic in a major case out there. One of four. They found ‘em all piled together in this old lodge hidden _way_ the hell out in the woods. The local police wouldn’t have even known about it if it weren’t for the smoke.”

The sheriff pauses, eyebrows raised in interest. “Arson job?”

Patrick huffs. “No doubt. Three shootings, one stabbing, and the whole damn building torched to the ground. No weapons, no DNA to speak of. Big fucking mess, it seems like.”

“And you said the victim’s name was Gerard?” The sheriff opens his desk drawer, scans through his notes. “That name isn’t familiar to me.”

“I thought you might say that,” Patrick drawls, smug and self-satisfied. “I called in a favor of my own and had them send me a copy of the case records, the will, birth certificate. The whole shebang.” He clears his throat. “So here’s the kicker: turns out, this fella’s your guy’s father.”

The sheriff frowns, rubs his forehead. “Chris’ father? You’re sure.”

“Survived by Christopher and Katherine Argent. That’s what it says, right here, plain as day.”

“Well, not by Kate,” the sheriff murmurs. “She’s dead, too.”

Patrick hums thoughtfully. “So, is all of this helpful to you?” he asks, voice losing its cocky edge. “Are you getting what you need?”

The sheriff thinks for a minute, nodding in wordless response until he remembers that the other man can’t see him. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

“No problem. Any time.”

He’s about to hang up, reaching out to set the receiver down, and then pauses. Lifts it back to his ear. “One other thing, though. You mentioned something about rumors of a death cult? What’s that all about?”

Patrick snorts. “Oh, it’s gobbledygook. They just found a bunch of weird shit in the wreckage, and some overeager reporters may have taken some things out of context.”

The sheriff shifts in his chair, swivels around and props his feet up on the desk. “Stuff, like what?”

“Weapons. Books on mythology and the supernatural. Old relics and sigils and tapestries. The usual psycho crap.”

“Gotcha. Thanks again.”

The sheriff sets the phone down on its hook, leans back with his hands tucked behind his head. His forehead furrows with deep wrinkles, mouth drawn into a thin line. And his thoughts are troubled.

 

**V.**

In the bright of the day off the side of the highway, Chris stands at the bottom of the steep ravine, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, digging furiously in the hard earth with the blunt edge of the rusty shovel.

The forest is quiet as death today, eerie without the distinctive sing-song melodies of birds calling to one another from the treetops, and Chris can very nearly hear the sound of his own heart rate beating a tattoo into his inner ear, resonating like the pounding of a war drum. He glances over his shoulder, cringes at the red stain splattered against the inside of the bag lying in the shade of the pine tree amidst the leaves and needles and acorns. The snarling visage of the half-transformed werewolf stares out at him through the thin layer of plastic sheeting.

Chris finishes digging and slams the shovel into the soft soil gathered about the roots and moss of the looming trunk. Lip curled in distaste, he kicks the bag into the hole, hear it land at the bottom with a dull thunk.

It’s early in the afternoon, and the heat is seeping in through the canopy, burning a sunspot pattern on the nape of Chris’ neck. He feels his sideburns grow damp with sweat as he takes up his shovel once more, refills the shallow grave, buries the severed head in the dirt and the muck.

Allison is out in the backyard when he arrives home some thirty minutes later, practicing her archery with the targets strung up on stacks of hay. Sensing his presence, she pauses mid-aim, looks over her shoulder to grin at him. He forces a smile in return, waves from the kitchen window as he washes the filth off his hands and arms. Allison turns back to her task at hand, lets two arrows fly in quick succession. Bullseyes both.

Chris stiffens as Victoria’s hand snakes up his back to hook over the curve of his shoulder. Her long nails scrape the fabric of his shirt, forefinger rubbing up against his clavicle. 

“This is messier than I would have liked,” she says, and there’s nothing soft about her tone. No comfort there. “This is going to bring attention we don’t need.”

Chris turns off the sink, reaches over to snatch the hand towel from the rack. He wipes his arms dry: quick, rough motions. “I protected this family,” he says coldly. “Put me back in that room, I’d do the same thing again. But with less talking.”

He tosses the towel to the counter, exits the room without giving her a second glance.

 

**VI.**

There’s no real reason to be alarmed, but Stiles freezes up anyway, stopping in the doorway to stare at the intruder perched on the edge of his bed. “Whatever it is, I swear I didn’t do it.”

Isaac looks up, startled. His mouth turns down in confusion. “What?” he asks.

A soft sound on the carpet down the hall catches Stiles’ attention, and he turns to see his father standing at the head of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other clutching the deflated blow-up mattress from the closet. “That’s always encouraging to hear,” he remarks dryly, fixing his son with a reproachful look.

Stiles glances at Isaac, raises his eyebrow. 

Isaac shrugs. “Not my idea.”

“It’s just for a few days,” the sheriff says calmly, pushing past Stiles to enter the bedroom. “Just until we can get this young man situated in his new home.”

Stiles’ eyes widen dramatically. He looks at Isaac questioningly, not entirely concealing the fearfulness in his stare. After a momentary hesitation, Isaac lifts his head, shakes his head slightly, matching Stiles’ gaze. Hearing Stiles’ sigh of relief, the sheriff turns to look at him, frowns.

“So...you’re staying here?” Stiles asks slowly, glancing between them for affirmation.

Isaac looks uncomfortable. “Just for a few days, like he said,” he mumbles. “Foster system doesn’t work as you’d think.”

Stiles smiles tightly, waves a dismissive hand. “That’s cool, no worries.” He flaps his hand at the blow-up mattress. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You can have the bed.”

Isaac opens his mouth to object, but the sheriff interrupts, “Good boy.” He nods at the door. “Vacuum’s in the hall closet whenever you want to inflate this thing. Make sure you get it done before I go to sleep. I’ve got an early shift, and that thing is _loud_.”

“Okay, Dad.” The sheriff hooks his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, presses a quick kiss to his son’s forehead. Stiles opens his mouth to complain, but seeing the look on Isaac’s face, he just ends up saying, “Love you, too.”

“I didn’t have time to stop by the grocery today,” his father calls as he descends the staircase. “You boys think about what you want to order for supper.”

Stiles waits until the footsteps have faded to shut the door. He turns to Isaac expectantly.

“I didn’t,” the boy says quickly. “I didn’t.” He hops off the bed to pull his backpack away from its spot in the corner of the room. Unzipping the middle pouch, he pulls out a plain brown bag, sets it down on the surface of the desk with resonant clunk.

Swallowing thickly, Stiles locks the door. “You didn’t.”

Isaac nods, and the weariness behind his eyes doesn’t belong to a kid his age - it’s a look that wouldn’t seem out of place in the expression of a elderly man at the end of his life. “I really didn’t.”

Stiles sighs again, allows himself to breathe as the tension loosens in his chest. He sits down on the mattress, pats the bedspread to coax Isaac into sitting beside him. “So what happened?”

“I found a different way,” Isaac says quietly, plopping down heavily. His mouth twists upward at the corner, a shy smile. “A better way, if I’m being honest.”

Stiles huffs a breathy laugh, grins. “You’ve got me there,” he murmurs. “My plan wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever thought up.” His smile fades, replaced by concern. “I just wanted you to be okay. I didn’t want you to get hurt anymore.”

Isaac stares at a spot on the floor like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, refuses to look up. He sucks on his gums, foot tapping rapidly up and down. “Yeah, well. I won’t.” Still not raising his gaze, he nods vaguely at the backpack on the floor. “It took a couple of tries, but I managed to catch him on tape. You know...”

Stiles grimaces. “Yeah.” He makes an aborted movement to place his hand on the back of Isaac’s neck, stops halfway through. “Yeah.” Isaac runs a hand through his hair, twists his fingers in the curly strands.

“I figured that would be enough,” he says. “I checked the footage myself. Before I took it down to the station. I figured that as long as I had something solid, something they couldn’t dismiss...it would be okay.” He breaks off, pauses to collect himself. “And I think it will be. Your dad told me they arrested him earlier today, so...you know. That’s that, I guess. It’s over.”

“That’s good, right?” Stiles probes, bumping his shoulder gently against Isaac’s. “You don’t regret it, do you?”

Frowning, Isaac lifts his head to stare out the window. “No...” he says slowly, uncertainly. “No, I don’t. But this changes everything. I mean, what do I _do_ now? This has been the defining thing in my life since...fuck, I don’t even know. As long as I can remember, it seems like. How do I move on from this?”

Stiles sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth, pressed up against the wall of his cheek. He hums thoughtfully. “My mom died, you know,” he says. “A while back. Long enough ago that I have to keep a picture of her in my wallet just to help myself remember what she looks like.”

Isaac finally turns to look at him, frown deepening. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles reaches up, scratches the back of his head. “Point being, it’s been a long time since it happened.” He look at Isaac seriously. “But it’s still the worst thing in my life. By a long shot. And it hasn’t gotten easier.” He swallows. “And I don’t think it ever will. I don’t think you _can_ move on. Not really. These things stick with you, man. They’re like a part of your DNA. Forever.”

Isaac looks at him strangely, warring emotions fighting for dominance in his expression. After a minute, he huffs out a quiet laugh. Snorts. His mouth widens in a grim smile. “Well, that’s depressing.”

Stiles shrugs. “I dunno, not necessarily. You just have to find a way to make the things you do more important than the pain. At least, that’s the only thing I’ve found that’s worked for me.”

An owl hoots outside. The boys turn to look out the window at the sunset. “It’s beautiful,” Isaac says distantly, lost in thought. Stiles doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t disagree.

 

**VII.**

To his credit, Danny doesn’t _actually_ have a heart attack.

He does, however, yelp in panic when Jackson’s eyes glow bright in their sockets, teeth elongating into glistening fangs. Lydia manages to tackle him to the floor before he even leaves the room.

“Damn it, Jackson,” Derek mutters. He rolls his eyes. “What did I say? Show him _slowly_.”

Jackson looks sufficiently embarrassed. “I don’t have as much control over it as you. Why didn’t _you_ show him?”

Scott joins Lydia in helping Danny to his feet, escorting him back to his seat at the long table in the living room. “It’s okay, dude. Just breathe. Deep breaths.”

Danny shudders away from his touch, reluctantly allowing himself to be guided back into the wicker chair. “What the fuck?” he whispers. He scans the room, staring at everyone in turn. Derek is calm as ever, totally in control. Jackson and Lydia look sheepish, Scott and Allison concerned. Stiles looks like he’s struggling not to laugh. Danny glares at Jackson. “You!” He points an accusing finger. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?!”

Jackson flails helplessly. “I _did_!”

“That doesn’t count! I thought you were kidding!”

“We wanted to tell you,” Lydia says coaxingly, touching her hand to Danny’s shoulder.

He shrugs her off, scowls. “Well, why didn’t you?”

Lydia opens her mouth uncertainly. She looks to Derek for help. He grunts. “We like to maintain a certain degree of secrecy,” he says. “Surely you can understand that.”

“It’s a super secret club, dude,” Stiles says mock-seriously. “Really, though. You should feel really honored that we’re inviting you into the fold to join us in our fetching of newspapers and begging for treats.”

Scott chuckles nervously. Derek growls, turns on his boyfriend with a glare. “I _will_ kill you.”

Stiles beams at him. “No you won’t. You love me. I have proof.” He reaches over the table and pokes Derek on the nose, withdrawing his hand quickly like he’s afraid he’ll get his finger bitten off.

Derek just stares at him, dumbfounded. Allison covers her mouth and ducks under the table. Jackson looks torn between amusement and mortification.

Danny stares at them all, wide-eyed. “This is so fucking surreal,” he mutters. “Someone tell me I’m dreaming. Please?”

Scott shoots him a sympathetic look. “Afraid not, buddy.”

Lydia squats down beside Danny’s chair, tilts her head to try and catch his eye. “If it’s any consolation, we all wanted to tell you a long time ago,” she says sincerely. “Nobody liked keeping you in the dark.”

Allison pops up from under the table, wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, we’re really sorry.”

Danny just stares at the table, shakes his head. “Werewolves. Fucking _werewolves_. What am I...I mean...” He trails off, sighs. He freezes, expression turning wary. “Wait a minute. What’s this about, anyway?”

The group frowns as a whole, glances at one another. 

Jackson coughs. “What, you mean _apart_ from telling you that we turn hairy and howl at the moon every once in a while?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “No, I get that. But _why_ are you telling me? Just...for me to know? Because you don’t want to lie anymore? Forgive me if I don’t exactly buy that.”

Derek’s lips twitch into a slight smile. He nods at the pack, jerks his head towards the foyer. “Scram,” he says authoritatively. “Danny and I need to talk.”

Danny’s eyes go wide with fear, but he relaxes when Lydia places a hand on his cheek, smiles at him. “It’ll be fine,” she reassures. “Trust me.”

The pack rises together, starting to file out towards the door. Danny watches them leave, expression anxious. “You’re not going far, right? In case, uh, you know. He kills me?”

Stiles claps him on the pack as he comes around the table. “Nope. Just stepping outside for a bit. And he won’t kill you.” He starts for the door, pauses. Doubling back, he leans up close to Derek’s ear. “Don’t kill him,” he whispers. Derek snorts.

They all gather together outside in the front yard, shivering slightly as the wind picks up, blowing leaves around their ankles. Allison leans her head on Scott’s shoulder, yawns. “Do you think he’ll accept the bite?” she muses aloud.

“Yes,” Jackson replies automatically, glaring at the group when they don’t respond as easily. “Of course he will. He just needs a little time to adjust, that’s all.”

“I think he’ll want it,” Stiles says absently. “I’m pretty sure.”

Lydia bobs her head, startling when her phone buzzes. She checks the message, types back a quick reply. “Sorry, gang. I’ve gotta head out. Going out to dinner with the parents.” She starts for her car, looks over her shoulder at Jackson. “You should ride with me,” she calls.

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Why? I brought my own car.”

“Leave it here. You and I need to talk.” She gives him a pointed look, eyes flickering over briefly in Scott’s direction. Jackson pales, ducks his head. Grumbling under his breath, he mutters an inaudible goodbye to the pack and follows after Lydia, pace quickening as she jogs on up ahead.

“I should probably go, too,” Allison says. She steps up on her tip-toes, kisses Scott on the cheek. “You’ll stay and find out about Danny?”

He smiles somewhat distractedly, nods. “Yeah, of course.”

She walks off down the drive, leaving Scott and Stiles alone at the front of the house.

“Can you hear what they’re saying in there?” Stiles asks, squinting at the front door.

Scott shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs.

Stiles turns to look at him, brow furrowing in worry. “Hey. You alright?” Scott jolts, looks up with a forced smile.

“Perfect. Never better.”

Stiles doesn’t look swayed, but he lets the subject drop. The boys shove their hands in their pockets, standing in the growing chill as the afternoon wears on.

It takes a good half hour before Derek opens the door, descends the front steps to join them in the yard. Stiles coughs impatiently. Scott stands by, impassive. Derek wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, a thin trail of blood dribbling down his chin.

And he smiles.

 

**VIII.**

It’s midnight when Stiles slips in, locking the door behind him. The kitchen light is on, and he can see the silhouette of his father’s hat perched on the corner of the liquor cabinet.

He kicks off his shoes, pushes them into the corner by the door, steps down the hall.

The sheriff is hunched over the table, alone. There’s an empty glass in his hand, ice cubes still melting at the bottom. The smell of whiskey reaches Stiles’ nostrils, and he winces, tucks a foot behind his leg.

“Not that I should be giving you advice,” he says slowly, “but that might be a bad idea with our...guest situation.”

His father raises his head to stare at him, eyes flickering up briefly towards the ceiling. He chuckles softly. “He’s asleep,” he says, pushing the glass away to the center of the table. “But you’re right.”

Stiles sits down in the chair beside him, brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. “What’s going on?” he asks quietly. “Did something happen?”

The chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway startles them both, ringing out ominously, filling the quiet space with its off-key melody.

The sheriff looks at the floor, eyes cast in shadow. “I shouldn’t talk to you when I’m drunk,” he mutters. “I tend to tell you things I shouldn’t. Stupid things.”

Stiles swallows, hides his face. “Saying that you miss Mom isn’t stupid,” he says, voice muffled against his jeans.

Another pause. The chiming of the clock fades away, leaving only echoes. “You’re right again,” the sheriff says, voices strained. “It’s not.” He rises to his feet slowly, chair creaking beneath him as it scrapes across the kitchen tile. He looks down at Stiles, expression inscrutable. “Things are happening, son,” he says. “Or, they’re going to start happening soon. And as much as I try to keep a positive outlook, I have to face the truth here: it’s going be bloody. These...people. They’re dangerous.”

Stiles stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Who are you talking about?” he whispers.

His father looks away, closes his eyes. “Chris Argent’s father was murdered last week,” he says tonelessly. “Shot to death and burned, along with three other people.” He opens his eyes, fixes Stiles with a meaningful stare. “Chris happened to be out of town around that time,” he says softly. “It’s the strangest thing.”

Stiles’ grip around his legs tightens. He lets out a shaky breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

The sheriff pinches the bridge of his nose, doesn’t respond straight away. He rubs his left eye with his fist, sniffs sleepily. “I’m your father,” he says. “And I’m the sheriff of this town. And I know you kids tend to think we’re all clueless, but I assure you that is not the case.” He lowers his hand, turns away, walks over to lock the liquor cabinet. “I am getting very close to finding out what the Argents are all about,” he continues. “I am coming very close to understanding what Peter Hale has to do with this. Derek, too.” He looks over his shoulder, takes in Stiles’ expression of shock with no indication of surprise. “And I’m probably getting close to finding out how you’re involved in this, son.”

The silence is thick enough to cut through.

Stiles feels himself trembling, tries to steady his breathing. “Dad...” he starts.

His father lifts a hand, cuts him short. “I love you,” he says quietly. “And I want more than anything for you to be safe and happy.” He takes a step closer. “So if there’s anything I need to know...anything at all....” He turns away. “Nothing stays buried, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”

He flips the kitchen light off as he staggers away to bed, leaving Stiles alone in the dark.


	9. with teeth

**I.**

****

She takes up the gauze, starts with the wrapping of bandages around the tender flesh where the still-healing skin grafts gleam raw and shiny and pink in the dull throb of the fluorescent light bar over the horizontal bed. The patient - a woman whose name Melissa has never quite managed to remember - is slipping away into unconsciousness as the drugs kick in, arm twitching slightly as the IV lines pump fluids into varicose veins.

The doctor adjusts his glasses, pushes them further up the bridge of his nose, squints through the lenses at the dark bruises purpling the woman’s upper chest. He gives a little nod, satisfied, jots something down on his clipboard in an untidy scrawl.

“Have Nurse Ramirez take down her new insurance, please,” he says, passing the paperwork to Melissa. He doesn’t bother to look her in the eye.

Melissa smiles, tight-lipped and dangerously polite. “Yes, sir.”

She passes the roll of gauze to the nurse at her right, straightens the papers out on the surface of the beside table before exiting the room. Her gait is unsteady, weary from the night’s shift, and her face is haggard, exhausted. 

Coming down to the end of hall, she sees Scott sitting on the edge of the counter, waiting for her. He smiles, holds up a brown paper bag.

“Thought we could have lunch together. If you’re not busy?”

Melissa smiles, leans over to kiss his forehead. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

The cafeteria is nearly empty by the time they settle down by the stretch of plate glass windows near the vending machines in the corner of the room. The janitor is whistling as he mops the floor, wipes down the grimy tabletops with his ratty washcloth. The buffet line has closed, silver trays set in place in a long row by the kitchen, and without the stench of processed food permeating the area, the room smells just as antiseptic as the rest of the building.

Grey clouds rumble with thunder in the distance. The muffled sound reverberates through the windowpane. Melissa takes a tube of chapstick out of her purse and pops the lid off as Scott opens up the bag to retrieve his sandwich.

“Turkey?” she queries.

Scott smiles, shakes his head. “Roast beef,” he says, slides the bag over. He glances over his shoulder, watches as the janitor wheels his yellow bucket out through the double doors into the hallway. A couple of nurses sitting in the middle of the room look across the way, raise their hands in greeting. Melissa waves back. Scott takes a bite of his sandwich, wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know how you can come here every day,” he murmurs. “It smells like death.”

“You get used to it after a while,” his mother replies. She zips her purse closed.

Scott makes a soft noise of discontent, swallows a mouthful. “Why would you want to?”

Melissa doesn’t reply, just laughs quietly, raises an eyebrow in puzzlement, mouth slanting into a fond smile.

A flash of lightning sparks down in the distance. The nurses at the other table stand up, gathering their belongings at a leisurely pace and shrugging on their windbreakers. The double doors open as they exit the cafeteria, and the sounds of EKG machines and telephones blend together in the wide hallway. The noise cuts off abruptly as the doors swing shut, and the McCalls are left alone.

“We don’t get much time to catch up these days,” Melissa murmurs wistfully, chin propped up in her palm. She wipes a stray eyelash away from her cheek, blinks. “How are things going with that girlfriend of yours? I haven’t seen her around the house in ages.”

Scott doesn’t look up from the table, keeps chewing. “She’s been over,” he says. “You’re just never home when she’s there.” Melissa bites her lip, and Scott lifts his head at her quiet hum. He forces a small smile. “That wasn’t...I didn’t mean it like that.”

She waves him off. “I know, sweetie.”

Scott shifts in his seat. The rubber tips of the chair legs squeak on the slicked-down tile floor. “You’re not totally wrong, I guess. We mostly hang out...around. Not at home.”

Melissa scratches her chin. “Oh?” She gives him a look. “So everything’s fine between you two then?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Scott says quickly, nervously. 

“Hey, I’m just asking.” She pauses, fixes her son with an intent stare. “At least tell me you’re using protection.”

Scott immediately turns a brilliant shade of red, starts coughing. “I- Jesus, I... _Mom_!”

Melissa huffs dismissively, pointedly unapologetic. “I don’t know how other parents go about this sort of thing, but I’m not ignorant, honey. I wasn’t born yesterday; I _remember_ what being a teenager is like.”

“This isn’t happening...” Scott mutters, pressing his hands over his ears. He turns on the puppy-dog eyes, looks at his mother beseechingly. “Please. No more...”

“Alright, alright.” Melissa rolls her eyes, sucks on the inside of her cheek to restrain her laughter. She shrugs. “It’s not like I _care_ , you know.As long as you’re safe and happy, you’re free to live and learn. Experimenting can be a good thing if-”

“Stop!” Scott buries his face in his palms. “ _Please_...”

Melissa clamps her jaw shut, snorts. She takes a bite of sandwich, watches as the redness fades from Scott’s cheeks. Her smile fades slowly, brow furrowing. “You _are_ happy though, right?” she asks, tone serious, concerned. “You would talk to me if you needed to, wouldn’t you?”

Scott looks up at her, surprised. His mouth works open and shut for a moment, finally settling for somewhere in between. He rubs his eye distractedly, nods. “I’d talk to you if I needed to,” he says softly.

The storm outside begins to pass on over the trees, further and further from the town. The thunder rolls above the forest, rain pouring down into the animal kingdom. Bolts of light sizzle across the sky. 

This can be seen from the hospital windows. But the sound is blocked out by the glass.

 

**II.**

****

The whiteness of the plane makes it seem one with the flock of pale birds traveling against the wind in V-formation. Their ghostly color stands out against the brilliant blue of the cloudless daytime atmosphere. Trails of billowing exhaust fumes stretch out in twin razor blade streaks from the tail end of the aircraft. 

Even from far below in the meadow, the roar of the engines can be heard as the great mechanism in the sky passes overhead, and the boys look up to watch as it vanishes out of sight. Jackson picks absently at the grass, lying back on the blanket and stretching out his weary limbs. “You’re really getting the hang of this shit,” he yawns, reaching under his shirt to scratch his belly. “A lot faster than I did, I’m pissed to say.”

Danny sits upright next to him examining his hand as he pops his claws in and out, observing the patterns of light glinting off the knife-like nails. His expression is one of bemusement, wonder. “I still kind of feel like I’m going to wake up at any second,” he says. “Like, it’s one of those dreams that I don’t quite buy as reality, but it just keeps _going_. And then, when I finally _do_ accept that it’s real and I start to get excited about it, _that’s_ when I fucking wake up.”

Jackson grins, lets out a soft grunt as he latches on to Danny’s shoulder and pulls himself up into a sitting position. He claps his friend on the back loudly, sneaks his hand around to pinch the boy’s side. Danny yelps and jerks away, scowls at him. Jackson grins obnoxiously. “Not a dream, Danny-boy. Get used to the new you.”

“Asshole.” Danny punches him in the shoulder, but it’s playful, and the beginnings of a smile can be seen tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Jackson rubs the sore spot ruefully. “Careful now. Don’t forget your own strength.”

Danny grunts, pushing down on his knees as he stands to stretch his legs. “You’re fine,” he says. Jackson lifts a hand, beckons, and Danny reaches down to pull him up.

“Yeah, well that’s because I’m awesome.” Jackson dusts the specks of dirt off the knees of his pants, brushes away blades of grass clinging to his t-shirt. He flashes Danny a white-toothed grin, oozing smugness. “But I wasn’t talking about me. Not everybody’s a werewolf, dude. A love tap for us could leave a bruise for normal people. So...you know. Keep that in mind.”

“Look at you, being all responsible.” Danny studies him shrewdly. “Since when are you the type of guy to think things through.”

Jackson flips him off, still grinning. He lifts his leg backward, tucks his hand under his shoe. “I dunno,” he says, stretching. “Maybe I’m growing up.” Danny looks at him skeptically. Jackson chuckles, shrugs. “Or maybe it’s just a pack thing. Does it really matter?”

“It doesn’t _matter_. It’s just...nice. It’s good to see you thinking ahead for a change.” Danny looks out at the forest, squints. The leaves rustle, slick green foliage trembling in the breeze. The grass of the meadow sways back and forth, dandelions spraying forth seedlings into the air. Danny closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. “I can hear everything,” he murmurs. His fingers flex at his sides, body rigid as he listens. “It’s all so clear. Like it’s right here beside us. The birds...the river...all of it.”

Jackson drops his foot down to the ground, folds his arms across his chest. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip, moistens the dry skin. “Pretty fucking amazing, isn’t it?”

Danny opens his eyes, breathes out slowly, air whistling through his nose. He cocks his head to the side, looks at Jackson with a slight grin. “It’s something.”

There is a roaring from above, and the boys tilt their heads back in unison, watch detachedly as another plane comes in over the plains, white streaks cutting a path through the fading fumes of the first aircraft. A hummingbird flies in from behind Jackson, settles down near a brightly colored flower in a briar patch down the slope. The pitter-patter of its rapidly beating heart drums a tattoo into the ears of the werewolves as they observe it sucking the nectar from the plant’s stamen.

“So I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Jackson says abruptly, pausing to scratch the back of his head. He threads his fingers in his hair, shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “What I said...that night we stayed late in the office...”

Danny frowns, puzzled, then perks up in recognition. “About Scott?” he asks. Jackson nods slowly, and Danny chuckles. “And werewolves. Although I thought you were joking about that part.”

Jackson bites his lip. “And something else.”

Danny scratches his cheek, thinks for a moment. He pauses, smile slipping away. “Oh,” he says blankly. His eyebrows knit together, expression morphing into surprise and concern. “Oh...”

“The money,” Jackson says, not meeting his friend’s gaze. He kicks at a clump of grass. “I wasn’t making that up. I really have it.”

Danny closes his eyes, brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Jackson...”

“I know,” Jackson interrupts quickly, irritated. “Derek already gave me the same speech, so don’t even bother.”

Danny stares, mouth agape. “What, he _knows_?”

“Yes, but he’s the only one who does.” Jackson stares at him fixedly, wide-eyed and earnest. “So you can’t say anything about it, okay? This is just between the three of us now. Nobody else can find out.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Danny glares at him. “Not to be a douche, but don’t you already have, like, _plenty_ of money? What could you possibly need it for that’s worth the possibility of someone coming after you to find it?”

Jackson’s nose crinkles, face scrunched up. “It’s for the pack,” he mutters. “It’s not like I kept it for myself.” He stops for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Although I guess it did cross my mind...But I didn’t! In the end, I didn’t. We used some of it to fix up the house, and the rest...well, I dunno. College funds? Whatever we need it for. Does it really matter?”

Danny shakes his head disbelievingly, but his expression has softened somewhat. “Jackson, that is a _lot_ of money. And in unmarked bills, too, right?” He waits for Jackson’s nod of affirmation, groans. “Whoever it belongs to is going to track it down eventually, I can promise you that. What if it’s like...you know, the mafia or something?”

Jackson snorts, then dissolves into semi-hysterical laughter. Danny looks annoyed at first, but his mouth starts twitching, and he turns away to hide his own amusement. Jackson wipes tears of mirth out of his eyes, still giggling. “Oh, fuck me. The mafia? What are you, high? You’ve been watching too many movies, dude.” His eyes glow bright, canines coming out sharp and menacing. His mouth stretches into a dark smile. “Besides, so what if it _is_. We’re werewolves. Let them try and take it from us.” Danny frowns, and Jackson lets his teeth recede, eyes fading to their natural color. “And it’s been months since I found the briefcase. No one’s shown up in all that time.” He reaches over, claps Danny on the shoulder. “It’s going to be fine, trust me.”

Danny looks at him for a moment, ducks his head to smile at the ground. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Jackson darts in, nips at his neck affectionately.

The hummingbird flies away.

 

**III.**

****

Stiles leans out through the bathroom door, hand grasping at the towel around his waist. His face screws up in concentration as he swipes excess water out of his ear. “I think I need a haircut,” he says, running his fingers through the damp strands, brushing his bangs so that they stick up in the front. “It’s about that time, don’t you think?”

Derek lounges on the bed, fully dressed, arms folded on his stomach. He turns away from the window, gives Stiles a once-over. “No.”

Stiles pauses, raises an eyebrow in challenge. “No?”

“No. I like it this length.” Derek pointedly drags his gaze up and down the length of Stiles’ bare chest, chews on his lower lip. “Gives me something to grab onto.”

“Uh...” Stiles’ face turns beet red, and his Adam’s apple bobs noticeably in his throat. “Well, as nice as that sounds, I don’t really like it when it gets long.”

Derek turns back to the window. “Why?”

He hears Stiles pop back into the bathroom, rummaging around in the drawers at the sink. “I just think it looks stupid. I just can’t pull off the hippie style thing.” 

“Hmm.” Derek makes a noncommittal sound, scoots up to press his back against the headboard. He tucks his hands behind his head, glances up at the freshly-painted ceiling. 

Stiles turns on the sink, splashes water up to wet his face. “Yeah, dude. Give it a couple more weeks, and you’ll see what I mean.” He smirks. “Unless you _want_ me to go for the Scott look?”

Derek makes a face, growls. “ _No_.”

He hears Stiles laugh, and then the boy is coming in from the bathroom, jumping up on the bed to lie beside him, still damp from the shower. Stiles grins, reaches up to brush his fingers against Derek’s cheek. “Didn’t think so.”

Derek’s eyes roam over Stiles’ exposed skin, and he feels a swell of heat rise up in his stomach. Judging by the expression on Stiles’ face, he’s guessing his eyes are glowing red. “You might want to get dressed,” he grits out, hands clenching down tight on the kid’s shoulders. “Otherwise, you’re going to need another shower.”

Stiles blinks owlishly at him. His lips curl upward at the corners, eyes dancing with mischief. “Is that so?” he asks, voice dripping with faux-innocence.

“Stiles...” Derek looks at him warningly. “You’re putting off this discussion, remember?”

“Ugh, fine.” Stiles huffs, rolls off the bed, walks over to the chest of drawers. He takes a moment to blow the dust off the phonograph on top of the cabinet, bends down to retrieve his clothes from the bottom drawer. “So what first? My dad, or the Argent thing?”

Derek stifles a groan, claps his hands to his face. He rubs his eyes tiredly, shakes his head. “It’s all part of the same thing, really,” he mutters. “Your father is the most pressing issue, I suppose. Chris Argent’s family troubles are his own to deal with.”

Stiles glances over his shoulder briefly, turns back around to yank his shorts up. “Well, _Allison_ is a part of that family, and she’s also a part of this pack. And don’t you think it might matter to her that her grandfather is dead?”

“I’m not saying we won’t tell her,” Derek starts slowly, “I just think the impending threat of your father discovering our existence takes priority here.”

Stiles considers that, nods. “Yeah, I agree.” He lets out a ragged sigh, pulling his shirt down over his head. “I hate to say it - like, _really_ , seriously hate to say it - but I think it might be time to clue him in to everything.”

Derek freezes. “Everything?” he asks slowly. Stiles smiles at him placatingly. 

“Okay, not _everything_ everything. Not _us_ everything. But, yes. Everything else. It’s better that he hear it from us than find out by stumbling across you and Scott feasting on Bambi’s insides.”

Derek lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in, tightness in his chest giving way to relief. “Okay.” He bobs his head, thinking. “Okay, I can work with that.” He sits up abruptly, clambers off the bed. “So let’s say we tell him,” he says, pacing back and forth, shoes clomping on the hardwood. “How do you think he’ll react?”

Stiles’ mouth twitches. “What, you mean beyond the expected Oh-shit-werewolves-exist-and-might-want-to-eat-my-face-but-not-in-the-fun-way? I honestly have no idea.”

“No,” Derek growls, eyes flashing briefly. “I mean, do you think he’ll agree to keep this quiet once we explain the situation? He’ll let the thing with my uncle drop? He won’t side with the Argents?”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply. His face clouds with doubt. “I haven’t really thought about it before...”

Derek rolls his eyes. “That’s great, I-”

“But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t side with them,” Stiles interrupts. “Or any of the hunters. Dude, he already pretty much knows about the whole Kate thing. Like, he doesn’t know _why_ , obviously, but he knows she killed family. I can’t promise he’ll be thrilled at the idea of his son running around with a bunch of people who howl at the moon and eat rabbits and deer, but he’s not a psycho. He’s not going to shoot you in the face just for being who you are.”

Derek studies him carefully for a few moments, then relaxes, shoulder losing some of their tension. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Stiles plops down on the edge of the bed, watches Derek pace back and forth. His t-shirt clings to his skin, face still flushed from the warm water. “Okay then. So what about the other situation?”

“My point still stands.” Derek turns suddenly, makes for the door. He beckons for Stiles to follow. “The hunters have stuck to their side of the truce, we’ve stuck to ours. Beyond Allison’s relationship to the dead man, I don’t see what this has to do with us.”

Stiles winces at the callousness of Derek’s tone, but silently elects not to comment on it. “I just think we should keep a lookout, you know,” he says instead, following the werewolf down the staircase. “It could be a sign of something...something, uh...I don’t really know. But, like, something bad, yeah? So...yes. Just saying.”

Derek glances back at him, amused. He nods once. “We’ll be cautious. We’ve _been_ cautious.”

“Right.” Stiles jerks his head meaninglessly. “So, yeah. Just keep doing what we’re doing then. Except now, with my dad along for the ride.” He looks up at the ceiling, groans. “Fuck, this is going to be _so_ bad...”

Derek opens the refrigerator, hiding behind the door to conceal his smile. Reaching to the back left, he pulls out two bottles of Coke, passes one over to Stiles. “It’ll be fine,” he reassures. His fingers linger for a moment, brushing up against Stiles’, and then he pulls away to crack open the lid to his bottle. “We’ve faced worse.”

“You don’t know that.” Stiles widens his eyes dramatically. “My dad might end up being the most terrifying thing we ever go up against. And we’ll be totally unprepared because he looks so innocent.” He watches Derek take a sip of his drink. “Like a seagull.”

Derek splutters. He sets the bottle down on the counter, brings his fist up to his mouth to cough. His face burns red. “Like a what?” he chokes out, mouth twitching like he’s not sure whether to grin or scowl. 

Stiles juts his chin out defiantly, struggling to keep a straight face. “You heard me.”

He makes a move to take a swig from his own soda, but Derek snatches it out of his hand and sets it beside his own bottle, backs Stiles up against the counter. “You idiot,” Derek murmurs, pressing his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck, rubbing his scent into the boy’s skin. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Stiles makes a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. “I think I know,” he teases, closing his eyes as Derek’s mouth covers his own.

 

**IV.**

****

Lydia leans in close to the mirror, swiping her tongue across her upper teeth, examining her freshly applied lipstick. The bustle of kids slamming lockers and chattering away in the hall outside reverberates through the door. “God, I’m sick of school.”

Standing to her left, Allison nods in agreement, washing her hands in the sink. “Well, it’s not too much longer,” she replies cheerfully. “Summer is just around the corner.”

“I don’t even know why they bother with exams,” Lydia grouses. She stuffs her blush and lipstick tube back in her purse, fumbling around to pull the strap over her shoulder. “The whole concept of ascertaining the level of information students retain by cramming a bunch of inane - often irrelevant - questions into the space of two hours is ludicrous. Standardized test scores are hardly an indicator of one’s intelligence, and the fact that some of this shit counts for 20% of our average is just insulting. Who comes up with this nonsense?”

Allison remains quiet through her friend’s rant, politely refraining from giggling. “It’s really terrible, isn’t it,” she says indulgently. Lydia flashes her a sly grin. _I know what you’re doing,_ it says.

“Do you know if Isaac is still staying at Stiles’ place?” she asks, changing the subject.

Allison nods, sticking her hands under the electric hand-dryer. “As far as I know. I think it was just supposed to be for a few days, but...yeah. The wheels of the foster care system turn slowly, I suppose. I guess the police figure he’s as safe at the sheriff’s house as anywhere else.”

Lydia bobs her head in agreement. “I bet you’re right.” She holds the bathroom door open, beckons for Allison to go ahead of her. “You’d think that a town as rich as ours would have a good system for children in need, but _no_...”

She babbles on, and Allison smiles, half-listening.

 

**V.**

It’s the blackest of nights, stars blocked out by scattered wisps of grey cloud cover. The beginnings of summer can be felt in the air, heat and stickiness taking their toll on the populous.

It’s as good a time as any for all hell to break loose.

 

**VI.**

Call it instinct, but Derek’s gut clenches tight and begins to churn unpleasantly before he even knows what the flashing lights are for. He slows the Camaro down, squinting out the driver’s side window as he passes the scene on the road back to his house.

Three police cruisers are parked out in front of the roadside diner, red and blue signals blazing out into the darkness as the cops stand around and speak in hushed voices. Derek can see a pair of men in neon jackets wrapping the yellow caution tape around the front of the building, and his gaze pauses on the window by the door, drawn to the telltale splash of crimson staining the smudged glass.

There’s an ambulance parked off a short distance, back doors swung wide open. A woman is sitting on the edge with her legs dangling down low, a brown blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She’s crying soundlessly, hysterically, and the sheriff is trying to talk with her. His expression is calm, patient, but there’s something in his posture that suggests frustration. The woman lets out a particularly loud sob, and some of the cops in the semi-circle pause to give her a once-over.

Derek pulls the car to a complete halt, rolls the window down ever so slightly. Closing his eyes, he breathes in deeply, takes in the overpowering scent of death. He can smell pine and appleseed, freshly baked pie and half-drunk margarita. And wolf.

A loner. An Omega.

Derek stiffens, feeling his Alpha side rising up to the surface; the need to protect his pack overpowering every other instinct. He opens his eyes and sees the sheriff staring straight at him, expression unreadable. Derek swallows thickly, forces himself to turn away. He rolls the window up and presses down on the gas pedal, wincing at the screech of the tires on the concrete.

His heart is picking up in pace, and he can hear it beating like a drum. It feels ready to burst out of his chest. His cell is in his hand before he even consciously thinks to use it. “Pick up,” he mutters, listening to the dial tone. “God damn it. Pick up...”

Stiles doesn’t answer. Derek growls, punches in the number again.

There are no cars on this road tonight, and his headlamps are the only source of light in the vast darkness. He punches the buttons on the dashboard, turns the radio off. The sound of the engine revving up resonates over the whir of the spinning tires. 

“Fucking pick up.” Derek’s t-shirt is sticking to his skin, sweat stains appearing under his arms. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, claws unsheathing to dig into the padding.

Stiles still doesn’t answer, and Derek has to physically restrain himself from punching a hole in the window. He calls Scott.

There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, a quiet yawn followed by a sleepy, “Hello?”

“There’s a rogue wolf on the loose,” Derek bites out, forgoing preamble. “Someone’s been killed. Maybe more than one person. I don’t know if the Argents know yet, but when they find out, they’re going to assume it’s us.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, the sound of bedsheets being tossed aside. “What do we do?” Scott asks, completely alert. 

“Gather the pack. If someone doesn’t answer their phone, go and find them. Get everyone together and wait for me at the house. I’m going to pick up Stiles.”

By the sound of it, Scott is putting on his shoes, fumbling with the laces. “What about Allison? How am I supposed to warn her if I can’t go near her parents?”

Derek resists the urge to lash out, forces himself to reply evenly. “Her parents aren’t going to kill her. She’s safe where she is. Don’t worry about her.”

Scott’s wolf makes an unhappy sound, a low whine. “Okay...” He breathes heavily, and Derek listens, clenching the phone tight in his hand. “How serious is this? Like on a scale from one to ten?”

“Trust me, there’s no way this ends without bloodshed,” Derek snarls. “Now do what I say. Call everyone up. And be on the lookout. We don’t where the Omega is.”

He hears Scott say something else, but he’s not listening anymore. He severs the connection and tosses his phone in the passenger’s seat, pushes down harder on the gas pedal, eyes glued to the road ahead.

 

**VII.**

****

It’s the click that wakes her: the clash of metal on metal. Her eyes flutter open slowly, and she frowns as Chris’ form swims into focus above her. “Dad?” she murmurs, confused.

Chris reaches up, tests the handcuffs. Satisfied, he backs away. “Sorry about this.”

Allison scrambles into a sitting position, startled. She yanks at her restraints, blinks the sleep out her her eyes. “What the hell?!”

She’s alert now, and even in the darkness of her bedroom, she can now see her father’s garb: decked out in black, jacket zipped up tight, rifle strapped to his back. His expression is strangely empty, and there’s a weariness in his eyes that’s far more frightening than anger. “I don’t blame you for befriending them,” he says quietly. “I understand, even if it seems like I don’t.” He reaches out to touch her knee, to comfort her. 

She jerks away, still pulling at the handcuffs. “What’s going on, Dad?” she whispers. “What is this?”

He withdraws his hand, lets it hand loosely at his side. “The code has been broken,” he replies simply, as it that’s a sufficient explanation. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose, but still. I won’t deny that I thought this peace could last. Longer than this, at least.”

Allison swallows thickly, reaching up with her free hand to brush her bangs out her eyes. “Dad...” she says slowly, soothingly. “Whatever’s going on, we can talk about it. There’s no reason to do anything-”

“Again, I’m sorry about this,” Chris interrupts, nodding at the cuffs chaining her to the bedpost. “It’s for your own safety. “We can’t have you following us.”

There’s a knock on the doorframe. Victoria steps into view, slipping on a pair of thick, dark gloves. “Ready?” she asks, not even looking at Allison.

Chris nods absently, waves her off. “Just a minute.”

“Mom!” Allison looks at Victoria pleadingly. “Mom, please, you don’t have to do this! There has to be a mistake, okay? This isn’t-”

Her father leans in and grabs hold of her shoulder, cutting her off. “I love you,” he says softly. “And I hope you know that everything I’ve done is to keep you safe. I know it’s hard to understand.” 

And with that, he’s gone, retreating out the door after his wife. Allison pounds on the wall, fear bubbling up in her chest as her parents’ footsteps fade out of earshot. “Stop! Don’t do this!” 

She turns around, presses her feet up against the headboard, eyes screwed up in pain as she tries to yank free. The metal of the cuffs digs deep into her skin, draws blood. A broken sob breaks through the panic, and she presses her face into the pillows as the tears begin to flow.

She doesn’t hear the ringing of her cell phone in the drawer of the bedside table.

 

**VIII.**

The night air is strangely humid for California weather, but there’s a low wind whipping about, and the steady pace of Stiles’ stride helps keep him cool. He swipes beads of perspiration away from his forehead, glances up at the flicker streetlamp.

“So, how long have you been running?” Isaac asks, panting slightly. His sideburns are damp with sweat, tongue lolling out as he matches Stiles’ tempo, jogging together down the dark neighborhood street.

Stiles grins at him, wipes the moisture on his palms off on his blue shorts. “Since never. I usually just go on walks. You?”

Isaac shrugs, mouth stretching in a wide yawn. “I can’t even remember. It’s just something I’ve always done, you know? Just a thing to help get away from everything, take myself out of my mind for a bit.” He looks at Stiles curiously. “You’re doing pretty well for someone who’s not in the habit.”

“Don’t be fooled.” Stiles slows down, winces. “My legs are going to be fucking sore in the morning. If I were in any worse shape, Finstock wouldn’t even let me be a benchwarmer.”

“Oh, please.” Isaac rolls his eyes, mouth curling into a smirk so reminiscent of Jackson it’s creepy. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You might not be as good as McCall, but-”

His voice dies in his throat as they round the bend. He skids to a halt, freezing up. Stiles stops dead at his side, heartbeat racing as he stares ahead.

There is a woman in the middle of the road, some fifty yards away, right under the beam of a streetlamp. She’s down on all fours, crouched like a jungle cat, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Her eyes are glowing; an eerie off-white color, like the moon shining through a thin layer of cloud. Stark naked, her pale skin shines in the glow of the overhead light. Straw-yellow hair frames her face, hanging down around her cheeks. Razor sharp teeth bared in challenge, she hisses, foam forming at the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t move,” Stiles says, voice barely more than a whisper.

Isaac probably couldn’t move if he wanted to, frozen stiff in place. “What is she?” he croaks out hoarsely. 

Stiles shakes his head ever so slightly, slowly lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “Don’t move,” he repeats.

The werewolf bristles, eyes flashing brighter. Her back arches high, and Stiles can see a black tattoo extending from the base of her neck all the way down her spine. It’s a serpent, and he swears he can see it move; like it’s a living thing.

“S-Stiles...” Isaac stutters. Stiles sense more than sees the boy trembling at his side.

“Just...don’t....”

The werewolf throws back her head, lets out an earsplitting howl. Her entire body shudders in violent rhythm, and then she’s transforming: skin splitting to reveal radiant white fur, long and thick and moving as though every fiber is its own entity. Her teeth extend further still, glistening and wet, dripping red. A rope-like tail springs forth, twisting around, whipping through the air.

Isaac gasps. Stiles feels the blood drain out of his face. “Run,” he whispers.

And then they’re moving: back up the way they came, shoes pounding on the pavement, arms pumping at their sides, ignoring their cramping legs. Stiles’ eyes are darting back and forth as he charges up the hill, searching for something, _anything_ he can use as a weapon. The bulbs of the streetlights burst into pieces and rain down on the blacktop, shattered by the piercing shriek of the beast’s war cry.

Stiles hears a strangled yelp, and he wheels around to see Isaac fall face first to the ground as the Omega’s claws slice into the back of his leg. The boy’s nose smashes into the sidewalk with a sickening thud, and his body goes still. 

Not thinking, Stiles jumps forward, waves his arms over his head as the werewolf moves closer to Isaac’s prone form. “Hey!”

The wolf looks up, snarls. Stiles bends down and picks up a pebble, chucks it with all of his might. The wolf jolts, growls. 

Stiles has a moment of panic, and then he’s on his back, slammed down hard and seeing stars, a sharp pain throbbing in his skull. The Omega’s claw is pressed up against his cheek, holding him down. The beast’s nails cut into the tender skin, and he shudders as the warm liquid starts to trickle down his face.

He squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see the killing blow. 

It never comes.

The brights of a silver Porsche blast into focus, blinding white and coming closer, and Stiles has just enough time to open his eyes before the front fender slams into the Omega’s side. Instinctively, he jerks his legs up to his chest, narrowly avoiding the car’s tires as the vehicle comes to rest beside him. He sits up slowly, shakily, watches as the white wolf limps away, disappears around the street corner. 

Strong hands slip underneath his armpits, and he feels himself slipping into unconsciousness as Jackson lifts him into his arms and carries him around to the backseat. The last thing he sees before falling into darkness is Isaac lying alone on the sidewalk, blood pooling slowly around his mangled leg.

 

**IX.**

****

Derek doesn’t believe in fate. He’s seen nothing in the nature of the world that would indicate any sort of greater purpose, any sort of plan. As long as he can remember, it’s all been chaos.

Yet he can’t deny the supremely eerie way everything seems to come together in perfect symmetry this night. He won’t dismiss his good fortune.

He’s about five minutes from the Stilinski’s house when the Omega stumbles into the middle of the road, bleeding and broken and salivating, white foam dripping down and intermingling with drops of blood on the ground. Derek’s eyes blaze red and he pulls the car to a violent halt, wrenches the door open. He doesn’t even bother to turn the engine off, just leaps out and charges, feels the transformation overtaking him as his claws come out to scrape on the concrete. The Omega leers at him, opens its mouth and howls, jumps forward to meet him.

It’s a whirlwind of color, black fur against white, nails like daggers slicing into matted hair and rough skin, bloody jaws snapping at each other’s throats, kicking and yelping and growling and swinging to kill. Derek’s claw slices across the white wolf’s face, basks in the thrill of tearing flesh, savors the beast’s guttural bellow. The Omega rears back and kicks out, catches Derek in the chest. He falls back, huffs for breath, and the female bounds forward, pushing him down into the pavement. She roars in his face, breath foul, smelling of death and decay. 

Derek inhales, catches the scent of Stiles’ blood, and his vision whites out. His wolf goes berserk, and he wriggles free, darts around the Omega in a circle, jumping in and out, trying to clench his teeth around her throat. His blood is pumping hot, heart ready to burst. Every sensation screams _KILL._

And then the haze is broken: a gunshot resounds, echoing through the trees lining the sides of the road. Derek looks up sharply, spots Chris and Victoria Argent standing some fifteen feet away, guns raised and aimed at the white wolf. 

Victoria keeps firing, one eye closed as she takes aim. Chris’ posture reflects calm and focus, but Derek can see the surprise in his expression. The hunter meets his eye, and they stare at each other for a moment, exchanging in silent communication. Then Chris lifts his rifle to join his wife in shooting at the quickly retreating intruder.

The Omega snarls at them, dashes into the undergrowth at the road’s side. Derek looks to the Argents, reels in his wolf just enough to speak intelligibly. “Follow her,” he growls. “I’ll circle around, cut her off.”

Victoria looks like she wants to protest, like she has no intentions of taking orders from a werewolf, but Chris responds first. “Go,” he says, nods once.

Derek doesn’t wait for further conversation, shifts back and barrels into the trees.

 

**X.**

****

The ‘door ajar’ alarm beeps in constant tempo as Jackson leans in over the backseat. He snaps his fingers in Stiles’ face. “Hey! Stiles? Stiles? Can you hear me?”

Stiles blinks, head spinning. He looks around dazedly. “Wha-?...”

“Stiles, are you okay to walk?” And that’s Lydia talking now, her face swimming in the periphery of her vision, pressed in close to Jackson’s. “Do you need my help to stand?”

“Where...” Stiles rubs his eyes, hissing in pain as his fingers brush against the ugly gashes in his cheek. “Where are we?”

Jackson is on the other side of the car now, grunting as he hefts Isaac into his arms, cradling the boy up against his chest. “The hospital. Lydia’s going to help you walk, okay? I have to carry him.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, starts moving jerkily towards the emergency room doors. “Hey! Can I get a doctor over here?!”

Lydia wraps a surprisingly strong arm around Stiles’ shoulders, steps back to give him room to climb out of the car. Stiles coughs, legs shaking. “Where’s Derek?” he asks, clinging to Lydia for support as they slowly follow Jackson.

“Looking for you, probably,” she says. “We tried to call and tell him what happened, but he’s not picking up.”

Stiles nods shakily, wobbles slightly as they mount the steps to the double doors. He hears a sharp gasp, looks up to see Mrs. McCall rushing towards him, Isaac’s blood smeared on the front of her scrubs. Glancing over her shoulder, he can see the boy being wheeled away on a gurney, Jackson watching with his hands tucked behind his head, staring blankly.

“God, sweetheart...” Melissa moves to Stiles’ other side, helps Lydia assist him through the doors. She pushes him gently into a cushioned chair by the nurses’ station. “What happened?” she asks, gingerly turning his face to the side to examine his wounds. 

He lets out a quiet little laugh, cringes at the stinging in his cheek. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Melissa whistles, gestures for one of the other nurses. She turns back to Stiles, smiles softly. “You’re going to be alright,” she says, immediately locked into mother-mode. “We’re going to fix you up.”

“What about Isaac?” Lydia interjects, standing to the side, arms folded. She looks pale, shaken. “Is he....will he make it?”

Melissa’s smile falters. “I don’t know yet,” she says, reaches out to squeeze Lydia’s hand. “We’re going to do everything we can.”

She stands, walks over to talk with the other nurse. Lydia drops down into the chair next to Stiles and pulls out her phone. She punches in redial, presses the cell to her ear. “Come on,” she mutters. “Come on..."

 

**XI.**

****

It comes to a head at the city reservoir, right at the mouth of the river where the grey stone dam blocks off the whitewater rapids and spills into the ovular basin. The trees loom ominously on either side of the flowing current, tangled branches stretching skyward like the talons of a great mythic bird ready to snatch the life out of its helpless prey.

The spray from the waterfall showers down in a cool mist upon the curve of the overlooking bridge, and Derek’s claws slip on the wet surface as he hefts himself up to block the exit. The Omega skids to a halt in the center of the dam, growls at him. She turns to head back, but stops suddenly, spotting Chris and Victoria standing guard on the opposite end.

Derek catches Chris’ eyes, shouts over the churning of the hydroelectric turbines. “Don’t kill her yet! I want her alive.”

Victoria shakes her head vehemently. Chris looks skeptical, but he nods. “No promises!” he calls back.

The Omega bares its fangs, looking warily between the two sides of the bridge, searching for any available escape route. Derek growls, begins to stalk forward. The white wolf’s stench is overpowering, noxious. And there’s something off in the scent; it doesn’t smell like any wolf Derek’s ever encountered before. 

A gunshot rings out, and the rifle’s blast chips a hole in the dusty rock. The Omega jumps away, bellows. Chris glares at his wife, pushes the barrel of her gun away. “Not yet,” he reprimands, low and fierce. 

The wolf’s attention is on the Argents, and Derek takes advantage of the distraction, charges forward over the slick stone. A rumble in his chest bubbles up into a dark, primal sound that startles the Omega into freezing up as he pounces on top of her, wraps his hand around her throat. 

“Kill her!” Victoria shouts over the rushing water.

Derek lifts his claw for the death blow, nails shimmering in the moonlight. The Omega looks up at him, her face quickly reverting to human form, fur receding into pale skin. The madness in her eyes is replaced by confusion, terror. She looks panicked, bewildered. Derek falters, anger draining away. He feels his Alpha side simmer down and die.

They stay in that position for a few seconds, chests heaving, the sounds of their ragged breathing mixing in with the noises of the mechanisms below in the waterworks. Derek grits his teeth, curses silently. He sheathes his claw, balls his hand into a fist. Rearing back, he punches the woman in the face, knocks her out cold. She lets out a gasp of surprise, slumps over in his arms.

Derek closes his eyes, forces his heartbeat to slow. He stands shakily, naked and shivering, and the Argents rush forward across the bridge.

Victoria glares at him. “If you don’t put this animal down, we will.”

“And I’ll let you,” Derek snaps, eyes flashing. He glances between her and Chris. “But not yet,” he says, calmer. “I have to interrogate her first.”

Chris lowers his rifle, points the barrel downward. “What for?” he asks. “We already know that she’s killed. If we hadn’t stopped her, she’ll kill again. What’s to discuss?”

“An Omega shouldn’t be this strong,” Derek says. “Something’s wrong with her. Even you can see that. I need to know what.” He looks down at the unconscious woman, prods her with his toe. “And we should probably find out how many people she’s killed. Leave no stone unturned.”

“Hmmm...” Chris nods in agreement. He scratches his cheek, fixes Derek with a curious look. “We thought it was you at first,” he says calmly. “You or one of yours.” He glances at the Omega. “Until we saw her on the road.”

Derek huffs a mirthless laugh. “Glad you took the time to fact-check before assuming the worst,” he says icily.

Chris opens his mouth to retort, but Victoria interrupts, drawing in a sharp gasp. “Oh, God...” she murmurs.

The two men frown at her, then follow her gaze. Chris tenses up, hand tightening on his gun. Derek’s eyes go wide.

Sheriff Stilinski is standing at the end of the bridge, pistol drawn and aimed in their direction. He looks shaken, disbelieving, but his hand is steady and there’s a steely glint in his eye. “Someone,” he says slowly, eyes drifting down to observe the naked woman lying between Derek and the Argents, "had better tell me what the fuck is going on. Right now.”

 

**XII.**

****

Jackson leans in close to the sink, splashes water up onto his face. He spits in the basin, pats his face dry with a paper towel.

Lydia is still sitting in her chair in the waiting room when he gets back, finishing up a call on her cell.

He waits about a second after she hangs up before speaking “What’s the word?” 

She rubs her eyes tiredly, slipping the phone back into her purse. “That was Derek, _finally_. He says he’s okay, says he’s on his way. I told him that Stiles is going to be alright, and he seemed to calm down a bit.”

Jackson nods slowly, rubs his elbow. “Everyone else?”

“I called Danny a few minutes ago, told him it was safe to leave Derek’s house. He said Scott went to check on Allison, but he’ll pass on the message.”

Jackson’s jaw clenches. He coughs into his sleeve, looks away. “Of course he did,” he mutters.

Lydia gives him a stern look. “I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to him yet, but you two need to figure this shit out soon.”

Jackson has to physically grip his chair’s armrests to resist the urge to get up and walk away. “Really?” he grits out, tone betraying every ounce of annoyance he’s feeling. “We’re doing this _now_? There aren’t bigger problems to deal with?”

“You think so?” Lydia replies evenly. “Isaac is in surgery, which isn’t really something we have control over. Derek’s taken care of the lone wolf situation. And we’re here waiting. In the wide world of conversation topics to pick from, I’d say this is the most pressing one.”

“What, your lecture the other day wasn’t enough?” Jackson grumbles. “You wanna talk about it some more, go bitch at Scott.”

Lydia’s eyes flash dangerously, and Jackson can’t quite conceal his reactionary flinch. “Oh, I _will_. You can count on that. But I know you, and I know that you’re going to hide in your little shell and lash out at anyone who tries to help you figure out your feelings. And someone is going to get hurt.” The light in her eyes fades away, anger giving way to quiet sadness. She reaches out and touches Jackson’s wrist. “Allison is pretty much my best friend. The only reason I haven’t told her is because it’s not my secret to tell.” Her grip tightens; forceful but not painful. “But if this goes on, I might have to say something.”

Jackson almost snaps at her, almost slaps her hand away. Instead, he just nods jerkily, looks away to stare determinedly at a spot on the wall. “It won’t happen again,” he mutters gruffly. “He made that perfectly clear.”

Lydia sighs, opens her mouth to reply, but cuts off at the ringing of her phone. She retrieves it from her purse. “Hello?”

She stands and walks a short distance for some privacy. Jackson sits still, rigid, grinding his teeth together and trying not to punch a hole in the wall.

 

**XIII.**

Chris tests the security of the chains, steps away when satisfied. He mounts the staircase and returns to the foyer of the Hale house, joins his wife and the sheriff at the dining room table. Victoria looks at him, lifts an eyebrow in question. He nods. “She’s not going anywhere,” he says confidently. “Trust me.”

The sheriff undoes the top button at the collar of his shirt, leans back in his chair. He snorts, shaking his head in disgust. He glares at Derek as the Alpha reenters the room with a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. “Remind me again, why am I not arresting the three of you?”

Derek sets the pitcher down, shoves it in Chris’ direction. “Because you’re a careful man,” he says, sitting down at the head of the table. He nods at the Argents. “That’s obvious enough from your patience in investigating these two.” He folds his hands together, taps his fingers lightly against his lips. “You’re not arresting us because you want to know more about what you’ve gotten yourself into before making any rash decisions.”

“You might be giving me too much credit,” the sheriff replies, glowering. “My patience isn’t going to hold out much longer.” He wheels on Chris, jabs his finger in his face. “You. Tell me what you have to do with your father’s murder.”

It’s the first time Derek can remember seeing Chris truly, utterly stunned, and under any other circumstances, he’d take the time to savor the moment. But the hunter quickly recovers, picking his jaw off the floor and meeting the sheriff’s accusing look with a cool gaze. “Should I even ask how you know about that?” he remarks drily.

“I made some calls,” the sheriff dismisses. He lowers his finger. “Don’t lie to me. I know you were there. With enough time and manpower, I could probably prove it. So talk.”

Chris’ mouth draws into a thin line. He glances surreptitiously at Victoria, but she just takes the pitcher and pours herself a glass without looking up. “I will always protect my family,” he says quietly, speech pattern somewhat stilted. “Whatever the cost.”

The reply is decidedly cryptic, and the sheriff looks like he wants to press on, but Derek interjects. “Not that this isn’t important, but it’s not really relevant to the situation at hand.” He studies the sheriff’s expression carefully. “Sir, I need to know if you’re going to try and turn us in.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Try?” he queries.

Derek sighs. “I need to know if you’re going to arrest us,” he amends. “Or rather, if you’re going to go public with what you’ve seen tonight.”

“What, the business with werewolves and hunter clans and pack wars?” The sheriff’s mouth slants into a humorless smile. “Do you really think anyone would believe me if I told them?”

Derek shrugs. “No, but that doesn’t mean you won’t try.”

The sheriff considers this, looks between the Alpha and the Argents, gauging the level of tension in the room. He runs his fingers through his hair, shakes his head slowly. “I think it’s safe to say that the....uh, supernatural aspects will remain off the record. You don’t have to worry about that.” His gaze sharpens. “As for the rest of it, I can’t just ignore the law. You killed your uncle. I appreciate that the situation is far from black and white, but that doesn’t change the fact that you _killed_ him.”

“If we hadn’t, he would have killed more innocent people,” Chris says.

“It was necessary,” Victoria adds coldly, speaking for the first time since sitting at the table.

Derek nods slowly. “You have to look at this logically,” he says, trying not to sound condescending. “If you take away the supernatural details, you can’t help but disregard our entire motive for taking him down. It’ll just look like we torched a man to death for no reason at all.” He bites his lip. “And when I say ‘we,’ I’m including Stiles.”

The sheriff makes a soft, pained sound, closes his eyes for a moment. His jaw clenches. “I understand that,” he mutters. “But that doesn’t mean I can let you get away with murder.”

The Argents glance at each other, expressions blank. Derek fidgets uncomfortably, rubbing his palms together. The only audible sound is the hum of the refrigerator, underlined by the slow, steady heartbeat of the Omega chained up downstairs.

“So, you’re saying yes?” Chris presses. “You’re not planning on letting this drop?”

The sheriff looks at him levelly. “I’m saying that I’ll stick around while you conduct your...interrogation.” He shoots Derek a pointed look. “Which I will be present for, by the way.” Derek nods in agreement. “I’ll stick around for that, and once I’ve had some time to think, I’ll let you know what I decide.” Victoria opens her mouth to protest, but the sheriff holds a hand up to stop her. “Don’t forget, I don’t _owe_ any of you _anything_. By all accounts, I’m doing you a favor by going along with this as far as I am.”

Chris leans across to grab the pitcher and a glass. “Well,” he says delicately, filling the cup halfway, “just remember, you’ve been overseeing and authorizing illegal surveillance of my family for the past several months. So if you’re going to throw us to the dogs, you’d better be prepared to go down with us.”

“I am,” the sheriff replies. “I’m willing to face the music.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you?” 

There’s an uncomfortable pause. Derek squirms in his seat, watching the hunters and the sheriff glare at one another, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. There's a soft sound from downstairs, a dull thunk. Derek perks up, on guard. He answers the others' questioning looks with a grim smile. "I think she's awake," he says.


	10. guts

**I.**

****

Stiles’ limbs are weary, tendons sore, body aching from the stress of the night’s events. The rough sheets of the hospital bed scratch up against the fine hair on his legs, and his head sinks deep into the side of the pillow as Lydia leans over him.

“Do you have any idea what I would have given for something like this to happen last year?” he grumbles, cringing as Lydia’s tongue licks a path up the length of a particularly nasty gash in his cheek. He hisses as the salve effect of the werewolf’s saliva kicks in, slowly sealing up the wound. 

Lydia’s pulls away to inspect her handiwork, licks her lips. “I think it’s going to be alright,” she murmurs, ignoring his remark. “You might have a tiny scar, but most of it should heal up nicely.”

“Awesome, thanks.” Stiles cocks an eyebrow, tries for a mock-seductive smile. “Although I guess it works in my favor either way. Chicks dig scars, right?” Lydia frowns.

“Careful,” she warns, reproachful. “I can still kick your ass.”

Stiles raises his palms in surrender, turns to cough into the sleeve of his hospital gown. “Shutting up.”

Lydia stands up, and the mattress squeaks at the loss of her weight. “Get some rest,” she says firmly. “We’ll come back with Derek as soon as this mess with the Omega is sorted out.”

“Mm-hmm.” Stiles nods sleepily, sinking back down to lay his cheek flat against the pillow. He yawns, closes his eyes. “I have my phone with me. Keep me in the loop.”

He’s unconscious in seconds, passed out from exhaustion. Lydia takes a moment before leaving, reaches out to stroke her fingers around the curve of his ear. Her mouth slants upward into a fond smile, and she lets her hand rest against his cheek, pauses briefly. Stiles’ breathing evens out, chest rising and falling beneath his hospital gown.

Lydia closes the door quietly, watches him roll over in his sleep. She turns and sees Danny and Jackson standing at the end of the hallway, talking in hushed voices with their heads ducked together. They nod in greeting as she joins them. “Anything?” she asks.

“We just finished talking to Scott’s mom,” Jackson says, somewhat strained. “Isaac is stable, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“They don’t know yet,” Danny chimes in, answering Lydia’s impatient frown when Jackson doesn’t continue. “It’s pretty touch and go.”

Lydia sighs, brushes her bangs aside. “Okay. I guess we just have to wait. Nothing we can do.” She tugs on Jackson’s sleeve. “Ready to go? Derek wants us there.”

Jackson hums meaninglessly, allowing her to slowly pull him towards the emergency room exit. He looks over his shoulder, cocks a questioning eyebrow. “You staying with Stiles?”

Danny nods. “Yeah, just until his dad gets here.” 

They all exchange uneasy glances. Lydia’s mouth draws into a thin line. “How do you think he’s taking it?” she murmurs.

Jackson shrugs. “Who knows. He’s not stupid, though. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed something’s pretty fucked up in this town.”

Danny snorts. “I doubt _werewolves_ ever crossed his mind as a possibility.”

His pack mates silently concede the point before leaving him alone in the crowded waiting room.

 

**II.**

A bouquet of roses sits in a blue-tinted vase at the center of the metalwork table out on the the back porch of the Argent house. The bright red petals have begun to wilt, blackening at the edges and turning wispy and shriveled, fading from their former brilliance.

Allison sits in the chair by the railing, gazing out at the yard, at the garden so carefully attended to by her parents on lazy afternoons in the heat of the day. Her gaze is unfocused, drifting, but her the cogs are turning in her restless mind. Everything is coming into sharper focus. 

She rubs at the fresh cuts in her wrists left by the handcuffs, running the tips her fingers over the swollen skin. Scott sits across the table, cringes as he watches her examining her wounds.

“We can just sit here for a while,” he says quietly, tentatively, with the tone one might use to try and avoid spooking a frightened animal. “Derek’s got things covered now. We don’t have to meet up with everyone until you’re...you know. Ready to...whatever.”

Allison lifts her hands up close to her face, breathes in slowly and gently blows on the bloody scrapes, shivering slightly at the stinging from the gust of cool air. “No,” she says calmly, composed to the point of seeming robotic. “It’s fine. We should be with the others. I want to know what’s going on as much as anyone.”

Scott swallows nervously. “Yeah, well. If you’re sure.”

The chair creaks as Allison stands. She touches her hand to Scott’s shoulder, smiles tightly. “It’s fine. If I don’t see my parents now, I’ll just see them whenever this is over, whenever they come home. And it’s going to be awkward no matter what.” She huffs mirthlessly, lets her hand drop down by her side. “They chained me up to my bed and drove out into the night to try and _kill_ you. With no proof that you’d done anything wrong.”

“But they didn’t,” Scott says quickly. He stands as well, shrugging off his windbreaker to wrap around Allison’s shoulders. “They didn’t, and everybody is okay. And...” He trails off, hesitating. “And it’s not like you didn’t know what they’re capable of. Right?”

Allison bites down her lip, zipping up Scott’s jacket all the way to her chin. She shudders, moves stiffly towards the glass door leading back into the kitchen. “There’s a difference between having a vague idea that your parents might be a little morally corrupt and having to actually face that fact head on.” She reaches up to wipe at her eyes, turning her face so Scott can’t see. “It’s just something I’d rather have not known about them. I though they were better than...”

_Than Kate._ It goes unspoken, and Scott has the decency to let the subject drop. He moves to her side, sliding his arm around her waist in a gesture of comfort as they walk together through the house to the front door. Allison fishes in her p ocket, feeling immensely proud that her hands don’t shake as she passes her keys over.

 

**III.**

****

“There _is_ something...” Jackson murmurs. He leans up close to the passenger’s side window, trying to stay awake as they drive down the deserted, winding road to the Hale house along the path of swaying trees. “Something we could do.”

Lydia doesn’t bother looking at him, and Jackson can tell by her scent that she’s struggling to stave off sleep as well, clenching the steering wheel tight as she rounds the bend. “Are you going to elaborate, or should I just ignore you?”

“About Isaac,” Jackson says. He studies his nails with false interest, picks for dirt, scratching at the skin. “There is one thing we could try. If we bring Derek back to the hospital...”

There’s a pause, a moment for the notion to sink in. Lydia stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath. “No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Jackson cracks his knuckles. “Not sure it’s your call,” he says delicately. Lydia glares at him.

“If I don’t get a say, why are you even bringing it up to me?” she snarls. “You already know how I feel about this. No one should have the bite forced on them. It’s Isaac’s choice, not yours. Not Derek’s.”

“Isaac can’t make the choice,” Jackson shoots back, argument at the ready. “He’s not conscious, and he’s in too much pain to wake up. And even if we _did_ , he’d hardly be in any fucking state to make life changing decisions in the time frame necessary.”

Lydia makes an aborted half-movement, twitches irritably. “Then you have your answer. We’re not doing it.” Jackson growls lowly.

“It could save his life.”

“It could kill him,” Lydia replies.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “He’s already dying.”

“We don’t know that.”

“He _could_ be dying.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of the drive, pointedly looking anywhere but at one another. The low thrum of the engine rumbles over the nearly inaudible crackle of the radio playing out an old tune. An owl hoots from the treetops as they pull up to the drive.

The lights are on inside the house, dull glow of the foyer lamps shining through the window by the front door. Lydia puts the car in park, lets the keys dangle uselessly in the ignition. When she finally turns to look at Jackson, his jaw is set, eyes suspiciously wet. “Even after all of this time,” he says, “if you could have a do-over, you’d take it? You would choose not to be pack?”

Lydia closes her eyes, sighs. “Jackson...” she mutters tiredly.

He presses on. “Do we really mean that little to you?”

Her eyes snap open, flash dangerously. “That’s not fair,” she whispers. “You know that’s not true.” She threads her fingers through her hair, thinking. Jackson sits quietly, fidgeting and staring at his lap. “I can’t say what I would choose if I had the chance for a do-over. Because I _don’t_. I’m stuck with this, Jackson. Okay? I’m stuck with this for the rest of my life, for better or worse. And I’m glad it’s with you guys. Really, I am. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to sometimes wish for something else.”

Jackson makes an unhappy sound, a wolfish whine. He bites it back, lets the noise roll out. “Hmmm.”

Lydia gives him a look. “I know you and Derek see it as a gift. He’s been like this from birth, so I can give him a pass. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be anything else. And you’re... _you_. So I can understand the appeal.” She shifts closer, reaching out to gently tuck her hand around the nape of his neck. “But come on. You have to admit, life would be a lot easier without the burden of this thing. It’s a huge responsibility. A hell of a lot to ask from a bunch of kids.” 

“So, what, you just want life to be easy?” Jackson grits out. Lydia huffs.

“What, you don’t?” she retorts. Then amends, “Not that it’s _supposed_ to be easy, mind you. Not that we’re owed anything. That’s not what I’m saying.” She shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe I would feel differently if Derek had offered instead of taking. I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m okay with the way everything’s turned out, for the most part. You guys have become more important to me than I really feel comfortable sharing. Still, though. I should have had a choice. It should have been _my_ choice. That fucking matters, Jackson.”

He’s still not looking at her, but he’s silent, listening. He nods jerkily, rubbing his fingers up and down the seam of his pants. “It does,” he agrees grudgingly. Lifting his head, he finally turns to match her steady gaze. “But this is different. You would have survived without the bite. Isaac might not. And this is a chance to save him.”

“He might not want to be bound to us,” Lydia says, voice soft. “It might not be a price he wants to pay.”

Jackson wrenches open the car door, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You don’t have to think of it as a gift, Lydia. You can look at it as a curse if want to. But a cursed life is still a fucking _life_ , and I think we owe him that much for dragging him into this mess.” He juts his chin out, defiant. “I’m going to suggest the idea to Derek,” he says firmly.

Lydia studies him carefully, expression thoughtful, like she’s never seen him properly before. She nods absently, opening up her own door. “Fair enough. I won’t stop you.”

Their shoes crunch down on the leaves and the gravel on the path to the front steps, and the floorboards of the porch squeak as they step up to bang on the brass knocker.

The sheriff opens the door, looking haggard and tired and pissed off. He fixes them both with a stern look. “Come on in,” he mutters, stepping aside to grant them entrance.

 

**IV.**

****

The Omega shivers, sitting under the vent of the air conditioner in the corner of the basement. She clutches at the woolen blanket slung around her naked form, pulling it tighter around her body. The restraints clink together as she shifts into a cross-legged position, looking around the room fearfully at the watchful eyes fixed upon her.

Derek stands close by, leaning at an angle against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The smoldering red fire in his eyes rides in and out in waves of heat. “What is your business in our territory?” he growls.

“No business,” she whispers, reaching up to brush a stray clump of straw-colored hair back behind her ear. “I was on the run. My pack was killed by a larger one. Their Alpha gave the survivors the choice to join him or flee.” She shrugs. “I fled.”

“Where are you from?” Chris cuts in, ignoring Derek’s look of annoyance. 

The Omega studies him distrustfully, clenching at the blanket even tighter. “Arizona,” she murmurs. 

Chris whistles. Victoria snorts disbelievingly. “Far from home, aren’t you?” she says.

“When you lose your pack, you don’t just rebuild a few cities over. You get the hell out of Dodge.”

The sheriff is standing in the back with Lydia and Jackson, arm resting on the banister of the staircase leading up to the foyer. His eyes flicker between the werewolf crouched on the floor and the semicircle of interrogators surrounding her. He clears his throat. “What’s your name?” he asks, tone considerably kinder than Derek’s or the Argents’. 

The Omega chuckles humorlessly, eyes flashing. “What, we’re playing good cop/bad cop now?” The sheriff shrugs.

“No. Just figured, since we’re talking here, we might as well know your name.”

She chews on the inside of her cheek, expression shrewd, contemplative. “Mara,” she says. 

Derek pushes away from the wall and grabs a stool from behind the couch facing the television set. He drags it across the floor and plants it down hard, sits down with a grunt. “Why did you kill those people at the diner?” he asks.

Mara blinks, tensing up. She relaxes after a moment, drops her gaze to the ground. “I wasn’t aware that I’d killed anyone until just now.”

Victoria appears resolutely skeptical, and Chris remains unmoved. “You’re saying you have amnesia?” he tries, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. Mara raises her head to shoot him a withering look. 

“I’m saying that something happened to me in the forest. Whatever I did tonight, I wasn’t in my right mind.” She turns to Derek, pleading. “I swear I didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, pauses as the door opens. 

Chris glances over his shoulder, eyes widening as Scott and Allison descend the staircase. Victoria draws in a sharp gasp, shoulders stiffening. Scott looks at Derek, nods in greeting. Allison refuses to look either of her parents in the eye, makes a point to walk over and stand beside Jackson and Lydia.

“Stiles is fine,” Scott murmurs to Derek. He looks over to the sheriff, suddenly uncomfortable. “He’s fine,” he reiterates louder, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head. “Danny is with him now.”

The sheriff exhales noisily, clearly relieved. His expression quickly marshals itself into annoyed sternness. “You and I need to have a talk later.”

Scott nods, sheepish.

Chris clears his throat. “He’s with Danny, you said?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. “Who is Danny?”

Scott freezes, caught. He looks at Derek beseechingly. 

“Jackson’s best friend,” Derek says. He lifts an eyebrow in challenge, unimpressed with Chris’ thunderous scowl. “And the most recent addition to my pack.”

Victoria takes a step forward. “I’m sorry,” she bites out, not sounding very sorry at all, “I must be confused. It was my understanding that one of the stipulations of our truce was that you were not to administer the bite to any more humans. Am I recalling that incorrectly?”

Derek’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “You remember fine. I simply opted to ignore you.”

Chris’ growl would probably be a lot more effective if he were a werewolf, but as is, it’s still pretty intimidating. The sheriff steps away from the banister, moving forward to stand between the Alpha and the hunters. “Whatever issues you have can be dealt with later,” he says. “One thing at a time.”

Derek relents, turning his attention back to the Omega. “You said something happened to you in the forest?” he prompts.

Mara flinches under his heated stare. “I promise I was just passing through,” she says, voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “I have some distant relatives who live in Northern California. I didn’t come to do harm.”

“Well, you did,” Victoria cuts in coldly. “So explain.”

Jackson broods over in the corner, arms folded as he listens. Lydia quietly attends to Allison’s cuts, wiping away the dried specks of blood. The thrum of the air conditioner kicks to high gear, whistling through the vent. Derek reaches up to close the grate.

“It’s all very fuzzy,” Mara murmurs. “The last thing I can remember clearly is taking a shortcut through the woods. I was trying to find the highway, see if I could hitchhike up to the next city.” She shudders, toes curling against the cold floor. “Something attacked me. I’ve never seen anything like it...”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “What was what?”

Mara shakes her head. “I don’t remember.”

“Convenient,” Chris remarks. Mara bares her teeth at him, makes a half-movement towards him, momentarily forgetting her chains. 

“I don’t really give a shit if you believe me. It’s the truth.” She looks to Derek, eyes wide and earnest. “You have to believe me. Why would I invade another pack’s territory _by myself_ , just to stir up trouble?”

“You’re a werewolf,” Victoria says readily, interrupting Derek’s reply. “It’s in your nature.”

Mara smiles bitterly. “I’m not going to let myself get drawn into this discussion. I know better than to try and reason with a hunter.”

The sheriff coughs loudly, effectively putting a halt on the traded insults. “This thing that attacked you...” he says. “You don’t remember anything about it? Anything at all?”

She looks down, brow furrowed in concentration. “No. Just that it was fast and took me down without much of a struggle.”

The sheriff hums thoughtfully, steps away. He looks at Derek questioningly.

Derek closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He gives Mara a brief once-over, nods tightly. “Give us a minute,” he says, motions for the others to follow him.

They file up the stairs, one by one. Chris reaches out to touch Allison’s arm, but she jerks away, doesn’t even look at him. Scott’s eyes flash, canines extending as he glares at Chris, a low growl gurgling in his throat. Chris lets his hand drop, expression blanking out.

Lydia and Jackson bring up the rear, both glancing over their shoulders at Mara crouched in the corner of the room before ascending the steps and shutting the door behind them.

The group gathers together outside on the front lawn, far out of the Omega’s earshot. They stand in a circle on the grass, looking at one another cautiously, trying to read into each other’s thoughts.

The sheriff sighs. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have a whole lot of perspective here. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around everything.” He runs his fingers over his scalp, looks at Derek. “What do you think? Is she telling the truth?”

Derek grunts, eyebrows drawn together in a frustrated scowl. “I can’t really tell. Her heart rate is all over the place, but that could just as well be a result of stress. It doesn’t necessarily mean she’s lying.”

“Necessarily,” Chris mutters.

Scott lifts one leg to examine the bottom of his shoe, nose wrinkling at the sight of mud caked into the creases of his sneaker. “Well, what do we do, then?” He glances around the circle. “We can’t just leave her tied up forever.”

“This isn’t rocket science,” Victoria says. She steps forward, looking between Derek and the sheriff. “We can stand around moralizing for as long as you like, but in the end, we’re just going to arrive at the same conclusion. She’s a threat. She killed three people at that diner, purposefully or not. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Scott stares at her incredulously, eyes narrowed. “How can that not matter to you?”

“Werewolves hardly ever kill humans on purpose,” Chris says, noticeably calmer than his wife. “Those who want to stay alive learn to control the animal inside them, take measures to ensure they don’t kill innocent people.” He glances at Derek, dips his head in acknowledgement. “Your Alpha understands that. Apparently this girl doesn’t.”

“If she’s telling the truth, then it wasn’t her fault,” Lydia chimes in. The group turns to look at her. Her cheeks tinge pink with embarrassment, but she lifts her chin anyway, presses on. “You can’t prove that she’s not regularly cautious. If her story’s true, it sounds like she was either...I dunno, like, possessed or something? Maybe infected? And that would make her a victim, too.”

Chris looks ready to argue, but Derek cuts over him. “I’ve seen plenty of strange things in my time,” he says quietly. “But I’ve never _once_ seen anything like this.” He looks between Chris and Victoria. “Have you? Have you ever heard of an Omega with the strength of an Alpha? Or of a werewolf with white fur?”

Victoria purses her lips, eye twitching. “So let’s say she’s telling the truth. What then? What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Not _kill_ her,” Allison says forcefully, speaking for the first time since arriving. She fixes her mother with a hateful glare, jaw clenched tight. “We’re not going to just kill her because it’s more convenient than figuring out what’s wrong with her.”

Scott bobs his head enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

Jackson shifts slightly, reaching up to scratch at the side of his neck. “We can’t just let her go, though.” He picks at a loose string dangling at the side of his jeans. “Even if she doesn’t mean to, she could kill again.”

There’s an uneasy silence while the group ponders that. Derek looks down at his feet, eyes wandering to follow a trail of ants, slowly making their way through the dark in the dirt and the grass, all carrying bits and crumbs and pieces of leaves. The chorus of crickets is just starting up; a scattershot whining along the perimeter of the woods.

Lydia kicks at a clump of leaves, chews on her lower lip. “What are you thinking, Alpha?” she asks quietly. Derek lifts his head, spares her a brief look of gratitude. 

He turns to face the Argents, eyes turning steely. “Can I trust you alone with her?”

Chris blinks, startled. He cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. “I’m sorry, do you have somewhere more important to be, Hale?”

Derek growls. “Answer the question.”

Chris rubs his nose, shrugs nonchalantly. He looks at Victoria. She makes a soft noise of impatience, matches Derek’s cold gaze. “No promises,” she says.

“Just keep guard,” Derek mutters, turning away. He looks at the sheriff, beckons for him to follow. “We won’t be long.”

“Where are you going?” Lydia pipes up, bewildered. Derek touches her shoulder reassuringly as he passes by.

“The hospital.” He gives her a meaningful look.

Lydia’s eyes widen in understanding. She leans in closer, right next to Derek’s ear. “Can’t that conversation wait?” she whispers. “I mean, does it have to be _now_?”

Derek sighs. “Like ripping off a band-aid,” he murmurs. “Better to do it quick. Besides, if Mara _is_ lying, it’s best that we let some time pass before diving back into interrogation. Throw her off her game."

He leans away, walks over to Jackson. He touches his hand to the boy’s shoulder and bends down next to his ear. “If they try anything,” he says, nodding at the Argents, “kill them.”

Jackson draws in a sharp breath, but he manages to keep his expression neutral. He nods in agreement, starts off towards the house. Lydia steps in line with him, and Chris and Victoria follow close behind. Scott and Allison exchange a private glance before filing in with the others.

The sheriff fixes Derek with a shrewd frown as they walk together up the drive to the Camaro. “Should I ask what this is about?”

Derek swallows thickly, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “I think it’s better if you hear it from both of us.”

His tone of voice leaves little guessing room, and as he unlocks the door and ducks down into the driver’s seat, he doesn’t miss the change in the sheriff’s scent: sudden shock and understanding.

 

**V.**

****

The springs under the couch cushions creak and groan as Chris and Victoria sit down together, side by side with their eyes trained fixedly on the shackled werewolf in the corner of the room. Mara watches distrustfully, peering out through the thin curtain of her unkempt bangs, pupils slowly dilating; in and out.

Jackson and Lydia are sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and strategically positioned between the Argents and their prisoner. Everyone is silent.

Dull thumping from the ceiling draws their attention: Scott and Allison pacing upstairs, bustling listlessly about the kitchen. The werewolves all flinch, ears twitching as the slamming of the refrigerator door cuts through the dull hum of the air vent.

“If you’re going to kill me, you should just do it now,” Mara says abruptly. Her jaw is set, eyes fierce, but the waver in her voice betrays the falseness of her bravado. “There’s really nothing more to be said. I don’t remember killing anyone. I didn’t _mean_ to kill anyone. I’ve given my explanation, and I don’t have anything to offer in the way of proof. You can either trust my word or not. And if you don’t, just get the damn thing over with.”

Chris’ expression yields no hint of his thoughts, though the hardness in his eyes seems less intense than during the interrogation. He says nothing. Victoria’s eyes roam up and down the length of the girl’s body, lip curled in distaste. “Don’t tempt us,” she says.

Jackson growls in warning, eyes burning. 

“No one is killing anyone,” Lydia says calmly. She touches Jackson’s knee, rubs her thumb in a gentle circle. The tension drains out of his shoulders, and he ducks his head, stares at a spot on the ground. 

Victoria looks doubtful at that, but she at least has the decency to keep her opinions to herself. Chris continues to stare at Mara, quietly, thoughtfully.

“You said your pack was killed,” Jackson says, not raising his head. He twiddles his thumbs. “What was the reason? Turf war, or something?”

“Or something,” Mara mutters, gaze unfocused, fixated on the opposite wall. She snaps out of it, glares at Jackson and Lydia. “What about it? What do you care?”

Jackson makes a vague flapping gesture, moves his hand from side to side. “Just making conversation.”

Mara huffs, bends her neck and presses her nose into the crease between her knees. “Great icebreaker.” She wraps her arms tighter around her legs, digs her fingernails into the soft skin. “It wasn’t about anything,” she continues, voice barely audible, muffled by her knees. “Some Alpha got it in his head that we didn’t deserve to exist in the same world as him. So he took us out. Simple as that.”

Lydia listens without speaking. Jackson frowns, lifts his head. He scratches at the nape of his neck. “That’s it? No reason at all?”

“We’re not wrong, you know,” Chris interrupts, staring at the black television screen, running his thumb up and down the barrel of his rifle. He glances at Jackson and Lydia, looks away. “I know what you think of us, but we’re not wrong. Werewolves are natural born killers, it’s just in their nature. Even the gentlest of humans can get caught up in the bloodlust after being turned. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count.” He squirms slightly in his seat, sits up straighter. He looks at Mara appraisingly. “The code is in place to give you all a chance, to allow you the opportunity to keep control over your demons.” He grimaces. “But sooner or later, you all give in to your darker impulses.”

Mara doesn’t rise to the bait. She matches Chris’ gaze with a haughty sort of indifference, jutting out her chin and turning her focus back on the wall ahead of her. Jackson just looks disgusted.

Lydia shakes her head. “I won’t pretend to know the things you’ve seen,” she says, voice small, sad, “but I hope I never become that cynical.” She lets her hand dangle, brushes her fingers against Jackson’s, wordlessly seeking comfort. “You can’t really believe that?”

“Of course he does,” Mara scoffs bitterly. “It’s the hunter’s trademark worldview. Oversimplification of complex issues, all with the purpose of justifying murder.” She surveys the Argents with disdain. “They always talk a big game about the ‘greater good’ and ‘protecting the innocent.’ But in the end, it all boils down to one basic fact: they just enjoy the killing.”

Victoria stiffens, knuckles whitening on the armrest. Chris blinks, a strange expression passing over his face. And then it’s gone, replaced with the usual unreadable mask. “Now who’s the one oversimplifying?” he replies easily.

Mara ignores him, tucking her nose back between her knees.

The dull clunking sounds from above continue. Jackson studies the ceiling with detached interest. Lydia entertains herself by popping her claws in and out, testing the sharpness on the wallpaper.

“What makes you so sure your Alpha won’t kill me,” Mara asks after a while. She squints at Lydia suspiciously. “Who’s to say he won’t just decide to kill me when he gets back?”

Lydia and Jackson exchange a quick, amused look. “Well,” Jackson says slowly. He coughs. “I guess we don’t _know_ he won’t. But I’m pretty sure that if he was going to, he would have done it as soon as he caught you.”

Mara’s nose wrinkles. “And why is that?”

“You put his mate in the hospital, for starters,” Lydia replies drily.

Mara cringes, understanding the gravity of the situation. Chris and Victoria just look flabbergasted. “Jesus Christ,” Chris mutters. 

Lydia glares at him. “Whatever you’re going to say, just don’t. You don’t get to be the voice of morality here.”

Chris rolls his eyes, lips twitching upward in a sly smile. “I have nothing to say on the subject. Just surprised, that’s all.”

“You’re just about the only one who is,” Jackson remarks absently. He shifts slightly, thrusting his hand down into his jeans pocket to pull out his phone. He types out a quick text, presses send. 

The thrumming of the air conditioner drones on.

 

**VI.**

****

There’s a moment of whiteout: a shimmering haze blanking out his vision. And then the fog clears, and he blinks away the sleep from his eyes as his father’s face swims into focus. “Hey, Dad,” he croaks, stretching out his arms. He smiles sleepily.

His father smiles back, but it’s somewhat forced, distracted. “Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, and he reaches out to stroke Stiles’ hair; an unusual display of affection, even for a man more in touch with his feelings than most. 

Stiles sits up, pressing the button on the plastic armrest to pull the bed out of recline. His stomach lurches as he sees Derek standing behind his dad, arms folded, expression grim. “Hey.”

Derek’s face softens slightly. “Hey yourself.”

There’s a pointed cough over near the door, and Stiles turns to see Danny slowly backing out into the hallway, pulling the handle closed. “I’ll leave you guys to it then,” he says, nods briefly at Derek.

The door closes with a click. Stiles rubs his eyes, tries to will his heart not to fly into a panic. “So...” he starts, glancing between the two men staring at him. “I take it that he knows everything.”

Derek swallows. “Just about,” he replies, sounding much younger and afraid than Stiles can ever recall hearing.

The sheriff presses his hand to his mouth, scratching at the growing stubble around his chin. There are dark circles under his eyes, redness in the whites from lack of sleep. He releases a long, heaving sigh. His hand drops down to Stiles’ wrist. “Son...” he says.

“I swear I was going to tell you eventually,” Stiles says quickly. He blinks owlishly, wide-eyed and sincere. “I really, really was. Like, I _hated_ not being able to tell you. But in my defense, I really _couldn’t_ , seeing as...well, you wouldn’t have believed me. You know?”

“You could have _shown_ me,” his father replies without hesitation, eyebrows arched in disapproval. “Why didn’t you just show me?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, thinking. “I could have,” he admits after a minute. “I should have. But as much as I hated lying to you, I was afraid of what would happen if you knew, of what might happen to you.” He swallows thickly. “I’ve seen people die,” he says in a small voice. “I helped _kill_ someone. Not that he didn’t deserve it; he seriously did, as much as anyone can deserve that. But I didn’t want to drag you into that mess. I couldn’t...I can’t. I can’t lose you, like we lost Mom.”

His father makes a frustrated, pained sound. “Stiles...” He shakes his head. “Son, that’s not your job. It’s _my_ job to protect _you_. To keep _you_ safe. Don’t you understand that?” His squeezes Stiles’ arm, eyes prickling with unshed tears. “Danger is just a reality of my work. It’s a risk I’ve made the choice to take. But you’re just a kid. I can’t let you put your life on line out of some well-intentioned but ultimately misguided sense of responsibility to shield me from the world.” He takes a steadying breath. “No more, okay? No more lies. We’re in this together now.”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles whispers. He balls his hand into a fist under the thin layer of sheeting, digs his nails into his palm and tries not to cry. 

The sheriff wipes discreetly at his eyes, lets out a wet laugh. “You know, it would have been great if you’d clued me in a few months ago. That would have saved me a lot of time and energy trying to investigate this shit.”

“Language,” Stiles says on reflex, mouth curling into a small smile.

Derek fidgets awkwardly, still standing behind the sheriff, back stiff as a board. “We should have told you a long time ago, sir. But I think you’ll understand if I’m not exactly predisposed to trusting strangers.”

The sheriff nods in mild agreement. “I can respect that, I suppose.” Derek and Stiles look at each other, communicating silently. This is the hard part. The sheriff doesn’t miss the private interaction, and his expression darkens considerably. “Derek, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to my son alone for a few minutes.”

Stiles can’t quite hide the hitching in his breathing, and Derek’s face goes white. “Yes, sir.”

He turns on his heel, exiting quickly and leaving the Stilinskis alone in the hospital room.

The quiet is deafening. Stiles isn’t sure whether or not the ringing in his ears is real or imagined. He chuckles nervously. “So...” He shrugs dramatically. “Surprise?”

His father does not look amused. “Strangely enough,” he starts, dangerously calm, “I’m mostly okay with this...werewolf stuff. I can see how you would get drawn into something like that, especially after Scott getting bitten.” He scoots his chair closer, looming over the bed. Stiles shrinks back instinctively. “But _this_. I...I don’t really know where to begin.”

“It was a totally mutual thing,” Stiles blurts out, opting to totally kill any remaining ambiguity over the subject at hand. “I wanted it as much as he did. If that helps?”

And okay, yeah. Maybe that’s a little too much information. A little too sexually charged. The sheriff blanches, expression turning stonier than ever. “No, actually. That doesn’t help at all.” He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s what the victims always say in situations like this.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. He blinks rapidly, takes a moment to compose himself before shaking his head. “Uh, no. No, no, no. That’s _not_ what this is.”

His father remains unmoved. “Yeah. It kind of is. How old are you, Stiles?”

Stiles bites back a groan. “Dad...”

“And how old is he?”

“ _Dad_...”

The sheriff leans back in his chair. “According to California law, you are not old enough to legally give consent.” His eyes flash angrily. “And according to _me_ , he’s old enough to know better than to fool around with a teenage boy.”

Stiles glares at him. “It’s not just ‘fooling around,’ Dad. I wouldn’t do that. With him or anyone else.” He sits up straighter in the bed. “I had a head-over-heels crush on Lydia for _years_ , and it never even occurred to me to ‘fool around’ with other girls. It would have been like cheating on her, even though we weren’t together. Which yeah, I know it’s stupid, but still. I know you and I don’t really have time to hang out that much anymore, but you should at _least_ know that much about me. I’m not _easy_.” 

“I never said you were.” The sheriff tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “So what, are you _dating_ , is that it?” he asks, voice strained. Stiles bristles.

“Is that a problem for you? Is this the ‘no son of my mine will be a fag’ speech?”

His father startles, eyes snapping back to stare at him in shock. His mouth hangs open for a few seconds before snapping shut. “That’s out of line,” he says, deadly quiet. “You _know_ that’s not what this is about. Don’t be deliberately obtuse to avoid dealing with the real issue.”

Stiles feels his anger dissipate, replaced with a nagging guilt. He looks away, cheeks tinging pink. “Sorry,” he mutters. He sucks on the inside of his cheek, staring at his lap and wiping away the sweat from his palms. “So, it’s just the age thing then?”

The sheriff frowns, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. “You’re a smart kid,” he murmurs. “You have to know that he’s using you...”

And somehow, that cuts deeper than anything else that’s been said. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, raises his chin in defiance. “That’s not fair. You don’t know him like I do. Just because he’s older-”

“A lot older,” his father interrupts.

“Not _that_ much older. And besides, we have...common life experience. Sort of.” Stiles rubs his forehead, suddenly feeling exhausted again. “Just because he’s older, that doesn’t mean he’s taking advantage of me. I _want_ this, Dad. I really care about him.”

The sheriff hums in acknowledgment, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way his eyes soften. “I know you do. I...” He pauses. “I saw the way you looked at him.” He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. He leans over to grip Stiles’ shoulder. “Look. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you your feelings aren’t real, or that they don’t matter. Believe it or not, I _do_ remember what it’s like to be your age. And I’ll even allow that Derek’s...uh, attraction to you is genuine.” He trails off, hesitating again. “But, son. The stark reality of it is that the age difference matters. It really does. I can’t just shrug that off.”

Stiles makes a soft, unhappy sound. “So, like, what? You’re forbidding me to see him?”

His father is silent for a full minute, staring at a spot on the floor. He takes a deep breath. “Stiles, you have to admit that a man his age instigating a sexual relationship with an underage boy is, at _best_ , damaged. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt in not assuming the worst.”

Stiles feels a little bit nauseous. “Please stop making him sound like some creepy pedophile. I’ve already told you, it’s not like that. At all.” His father’s eyes narrow, appraising, thoughtful.

“How did it start?” he asks, suddenly changing gears.

“What?” Stiles crosses his arms. “Does that matter?”

“Humor me.”

Stiles sighs, looks up at the ceiling, thinking. He shrugs. “Define ‘start.’ Like, when did I start having feelings for him, or-”

“The first time you had sex,” the sheriff cuts in, totally blunt. He tilts his head to catch Stiles’ gaze, deeply serious. “Tell me the truth.”

“We...” Stiles closes his eyes, a wave of embarrassment washing over him. He squirms, rubbing his arm as beads of perspiration sting at his skin. “We went to the beach one weekend, not too long ago.” He grimaces apologetically. “I lied to you. Said I was hanging out with Scott.” He pretends to pick something out of the corner of his eye, shielding himself from his father’s watchful stare. “Umm. So yeah. He took me to a hotel, and we hung out on the beach. And then...you know.” Hearing it aloud makes it sound far more unsettling than it had felt at the time. And judging by the expression on his father’s face, he’s thinking something along the same lines. “Dad, I-”

“It’s called grooming,” the sheriff says slowly, with the tone of a teacher trying to explain a complex equation to a struggling student. “He treated you well, took you on a trip. Seduced you...”

And that’s the last straw. Stiles feels his cheeks burning, sits up straight, arms going rigid at his sides. “Fuck!” He buries his face in his hands, silently counting to ten. When he glances up, his father is still watching him, looking more sad than angry now. And that’s even more infuriating. “Jesus. Okay, you know what? I love you, I really do, but you’re going to have to trust me on this one. He wasn’t ‘grooming’ me. I’m not some innocent little flower that he decided to corrupt, okay? I wanted this as much as, if not _more than_ he did.” His shoulders shake, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He lets out a choked, broken laugh. “And hey, you’re right about one thing: it’s not healthy. It’s not normal, whatever the fuck _that_ means. He _is_ too old for me, and the fact that he wants to be with me probably speaks volumes about how damaged he is. But so what? I’m damaged, too. Just not in the same ways. He’s broken, and so am I.”

The sheriff stares at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not broken,” he manages to say, barely more than a whisper. 

Stiles shakes his head, reveling in the perverse satisfaction of having shaken his father to the core. “I really am. But it’s okay. Because I’m pack. Because I have friends I would die for, friends who would die for _me_. And I have Derek.” He takes a shuddering breath and continues, voice thick with emotion, “And he has me. And we both need that. We really, _really_ fucking do. I know you’re my dad, and technically you’re still in charge of me for another couple of years, but I’m begging you, _please_ trust me on this. He’s not what you think.”

His hands are balled into fists in the hospital sheets, and his gown is beginning to dampen with sweat. His heart rate is up - fast and loud enough that he’s sure he can hear it ready to burst - and even though his father is looking at him with some strange expression of pride, he still feels like a stupid kid on the verge of tears.

“Hey,” his father says, soft and soothing. He moves his hand around to rest on the nape of Stiles’ neck, uncommonly gentle. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Stiles mutters petulantly, but he manages a weak smile, feels his temperature start to go down.

The sheriff stares off into space, deep in thought, silent for at least five minutes. Then, “I still don’t like it. I won’t lie about that. I’m not comfortable with the idea of him...” He stops. “It still feels like he’s taking advantage. _But_ ,” he adds, raising a palm when Stiles opens his mouth to retort, “I’m not going to arrest him. And I won’t forbid you from seeing each other.” He snorts. “Like you said, you’re not under my roof for too much longer, and it’s not as though you’d actually listen to me if I said no.”

Stiles cheeks burn as his mouth stretches wide, grinning goofily in spite of himself. “Yeah, probably not. I’m not so good with the doing as I’m told thing.”

“You’re not kidding,” his father grumbles. He yawns, releases his grip on Stiles’ neck to bring his hand up to his mouth. “No more sleepovers until you’re 18, though. No ifs, ands, or buts. That’s the price you pay for lying to me.” His expression turns stern again. “He uses the _door_. If you go over to his house, you go with Scott, or with Allison. Just _someone_ , I don’t care.”

“You know I’m going to find a way around that, right?” Stiles replies cheekily. He gulps, shying away from his father’s glare. “Uh, kidding. Got it. No more sex. Officially. Or unofficially. Maybe. Yes. Hmm...”

The sheriff rolls his eyes. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, but there’s a hint of a smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. Which is a good sign.

“Let’s hope not.” Stiles finally allows himself to like back down and lay his head against the pillow. A thought occurs to him. “Speaking of not arresting people, am I to take it that the whole Peter Hale debacle is going to remain, uh, off the record?”

His father’s smile vanishes. He looks tired. “I’m beginning to appreciate the complexity of the situation,” he says carefully. “And I don’t think that prison is the answer here.”

Stiles nods grimly. “It’s a clusterfuck, that’s for sure.”

The sheriff flicks his ear. “Language,” he reprimands. Stiles reaches over and squeezes his hand.

 

**VII.**

****

The smell of death is everywhere in this building, but Derek has had years of practice to attune his senses; Isaac’s scent isn’t too difficult to pick out amidst the distasteful aromas of clotting blood and vomit and piss. He’s in the critical care ward, tucked away in a private room, surprisingly enough. Probably to keep him out of sight; no one cares about the orphan boy with the abusive father.

Derek peers out through the blinds as he closes the door behind him, shuts out the light from the outside and shrouding the room in darkness. Over the hustle and bustle of the nurses and ringing phones and upset relatives out in in the hall, the loud intonation of the heart monitor five feet away resonates in mechanical tempo. Derek observes the blinking red light, watches the arhythmic fluttering of the needle on the green screen.

The boy’s pulse is all over the place: steady for a few moments, only to suddenly spike and send the machine into a frenzy. His skin is damp, hair matted with a sickly sheen of sweat, yellow pallor visible even without the fluorescent overhead lighting. He’s asleep, breathing heavily into an oxygen mask, leg twitching beneath the covers.

Derek steps slowly to the bedside, lifts the sheets to examine the wound. Even with the stitching and bandages covering the majority of the cuts, it’s still grisly to behold. Mara sliced him up nicely. 

There’s a small rolling chair over by the sink, and Derek pulls it close, drops down to sit close to the bed. He frowns, deep in thought, hands clasped together. He opens up his phone, reads Jackson’s text once more:

_Isaac might die, needs the bite. Lydia disagrees._

Simple and direct. Jackson doesn’t mince words; Derek has to give him that much.

He inhales slowly, breathes in the putrid smell of sickness and decay, swallows back the taste of bile. Reaching over, he uses a razor-sharp nail to slice a thin slit into the side of Isaac’s hospital gown, revealing the pale flesh underneath. He pushes the fabric out of the way, feels the Alpha instincts rising up inside him as he looks down at the exposed hipbone.

_Bite_ , the wolf insists.

Derek snarls, hunches forward. And then he freezes up: the image of Lydia’s disapproving face swimming to the forefront of his subconscious. It should mean nothing. She’s a Beta, a subordinate. Her opinion shouldn’t dictate his decision. It shouldn’t matter.

But it does. And he can’t do it. Not like this. He closes his eyes, grinding his teeth together. “God damn it,” he mutters.

There’s a noise out in the hall, and he tenses, turns to check. After a moment or so, he looks back, watches the sleeping boy’s chest rise and fall as he struggles to breathe with the mask attached to his face. Derek resists the groan threatening to rise up in full force, instead leans over the bed and switches the morphine off.

It only takes about four or five minutes. Isaac begins to stir, body trembling, suddenly aware of the excruciating pain. His eyelids flutter, slowly opening wide as his throat works furiously to swallow the pooling saliva in the back of his mouth. He gasps in terror, shudders, back arching against the bed. 

“Isaac,” Derek growls, standing up. He grips the boy’s shoulders, pinning him to the bed. “Stop moving, you’re going to rip out your stitches.”

Isaac stares up at him, wild-eyed, shivering in fear and agony. “W-who- what-? I-” He twitches, eyes screwing shut for a split second. “Where- who are you?”

Derek shakes his head, tightening his hold. “Don’t speak,” he says firmly. “Don’t try to speak. Just listen to me.”

The boy lets out a piteous whimper, voice full of pain, and it takes every ounce of Derek’s strength not to turn the morphine drip back on. “H-hurts so much...”

“I don’t know whether or not you’re going to live,” Derek says. He places one hand on Isaac’s cheek; a half-calming, half-commanding gesture. “I think you will. You’re pretty torn up, but I don’t think it’s fatal. But even if you live, you’re never going to be the same.” He looks down, nods in affirmation of his own assertion. “Your leg is going to seriously damaged for the rest of your life. Unless you decide to take what I’m offering.”

Isaac breathes harder, expression contorted, torn between confusion and fear. “I don’t- I-” He blinks rapidly. “What-”

Derek growls, effectively shutting him up. “What did I say? Don’t speak. Just nod or shake your head. Okay?” Isaac nods furiously, quietly moaning, hands spasming. Derek continues, “What I’m about to tell you is going to be hard for you to believe, but you’re going to have to listen anyway. You’re going to have to trust that I want to save your life. And I know you’re in pain right now, and I’m sorry about that. But it’s important that you hear this. This needs to be your decision, and I have to explain the consequences to you. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can listen? Nod or shake your head.”

There’s a long stretch of silence; so long that Derek starts to think that the kid’s on the verge of passing out. But then Isaac nods. Just once, but dramatically enough to be certain that it’s not just another spasm.

Derek exhales in relief. He pats Isaac’s cheek. “Okay then...”

 

**VIII.**

Between the constant white noise of the noisy air conditioner and the soothing sound of Lydia’s gentle breathing beside him, Jackson finds his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier as the minutes turn into hours. He begins to doze off, watches as the carpet becomes hazy, indistinct. His thoughts turns to wistful fantasies, imagines himself in a different place with a different life. He thinks of himself and Scott, allows his mind to wander-

And an ear-piercing shriek splits right through the dreams like a knife to the heart. His hairs stand on end as he bolts to his feet, wide-eyed.

“What the fuck?” Lydia chokes out, voice shaking. Chris and Victoria are standing as well, guns raised and aimed at Mara.

The Omega is lying prostrate on the floor, eyes rolled to the back of her head, blanket forgotten as her naked body shudders in violent, spastic motions. Her mouth is wide open, frozen in an otherworldly scream.

Jackson stares. “What’s wrong with her?!” he yells.

“How should I know?” Chris snaps, not taking his eyes off the prisoner, keeping his aim steady.

“She’s faking,” Victoria says, though she doesn’t sound like she believes her own words.

The door bangs open, and Scott and Allison quickly descend into the room. “What’s happening?” Scott growls, eyes blazing. He takes one look at Mara and wheels around on Chris. “What did you do?!”

Chris opens his mouth to retort, but Victoria’s gasp of shock grabs his attention.

Mara falls silent, lying still on the floor, facedown. Her serpent tattoo is quickly fading, wriggling like an eel against the stark outline of her pale skin. It vanishes from view, sinking into nothingness. The group watches, dumbfounded, as a rounded knot bulges up and starts rolling around underneath the girl’s skin.

“What the fuck?” Lydia repeats. Her eyes are glowing now, claws unsheathed and at the ready.

The knot grows larger, bubbling up to the size of a baseball. A hissing sound cuts through the silence, and the smell of steam permeates the air. Acting on instinct, Victoria steps in front of her daughter, shielding her. Allison stands rigid, too petrified to protest. Jackson and Scott stare, wary.

The hissing fades away, disappears. The knot sinks out of sight. Silence.

Everyone looks at one another, eyebrows raised in question. “Well-” Lydia starts.

Mara’s back splits open down the middle, spraying a geyser of blood into the air, splattering against the walls and ceiling. Lydia screams, horrified, jerking back as a sizable chunk of flesh flies out and lands in her hair. Jackson’s jaw drops to the floor, staring as Mara’s spine is wrenched from her body and propelled toward him. Scott leaps forward and yanks Jackson out of the way, presses him up against the wall, growling protectively.

For once, Chris’ demeanor of calm and control seem shattered; he stands as frozen as everyone else as an oily, black serpentine creature rises up from the hollowed-out cavity of the Omega’s body, rearing up to full height and slithering out onto the floor. 

Lydia recovers first, leaping away from the wall and crouching on all fours. She shifts, teeth coming out like daggers, bared in a threatening snarl. The monster turns its head on her, the face of some hellish worm: blind and featureless, just a gaping maw with rows of teeth. A rasping hiss gurgles up from its slimy gullet.

Mara’s blood drips frown the creature’s mouth, intermingling with copious amounts of saliva and pooling on the carpet. Scott moves Jackson aside, pushes him to stand beside Allison before jumping into the fray. He crouches next to Lydia, roars in the monster’s face.

Chris jerks out of his stupor, raises his rifle and fires. The bullet slices through the beast’s neck, spraying a thick sludge of black gunk out onto the ground. The monster hisses and somehow _leaps_ , attaching itself to the ceiling and moving quickly, slithering over to position itself above Chris. Victoria grabs the collar of Chris’ shirt and yanks him out of the way as the beast descends. It’s teeth snag on the barrel of the rifle, wrenching it out of Chris’ hands.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Lydia pounces, jumping onto the creatures back and slicing her nails through the back of its head. It shrieks, failing wildly, tail whipping back and forth in frenzied panic. The tip smacks Lydia in the face, and she gasps in pain, falling backwards with a bleeding gash across her cheek. Scott grabs the stool beside Mara’s corpse and snaps off one of the legs, darting forward and driving the pointed end into the monster’s body. The thing squirms wildly, but Scott hangs on, eyes burning as he stabs repeatedly. His forearms turn slick with black and red, drenched in blood and shredded flesh, dripping in the remnants of internal organs.

The creature’s movements die down, and it lies miserably on the floor, twitching. Scott stands shakily, backing away. Victoria takes her hand off Chris’ shoulder and steps forward. She raises her pistol and fires three times into the beast’s head. Jackson flinches with every shot.

The smell of gun residue fills the werewolves’ nostrils as the ringing in their ears slowly fades. Everyone stands still, frozen in shock, all breathing heavily.

Allison clear her throat. “Well,” she says dully, “I guess she was telling the truth.”

 

**IX.**

****

Sheriff Stilinski finds Derek in the hallway outside Stiles’ hospital room, sitting in a chair and staring at the floor. His phone lies on the chair beside him, ringing quietly. The sheriff frowns at it, arches a questioning eyebrow. “I think it’s for you,” he deadpans.

Derek looks up at him, glances at the cell. “It’s Scott,” he says. “It can wait.”

The hospital is strangely quiet now. The only noteworthy noise on the entire floor is the humming of the vending machine around the corner by the nurses’ station. The sheriff drops down into the chair beside Derek, folds his hand in his lap. “Quite a night,” he remarks.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Derek says. He’s waiting, the sheriff can tell. Waiting for the inevitable threatening speech. For _I have a gun, and I know how to use it._ For _No one will ever find your body if you hurt him_.

Instead he says, “I got a call, too. Back there in the room. Just a few minutes after Stiles fell asleep.” His tone is light, conversational. Not quite friendly, but polite. He surveys Derek’s rigid posture, expression unreadable. “Could you hear?” he asks mildly. “I know your senses are stronger.”

Derek frowns, bemused at the direction of the discussion. He shakes his head. “I wasn’t sitting out here while you two were talking. I had...something else to do.”

“Hmmm.” The sheriff stretches, turns to stare at the wallpaper on the opposite side of the hall. “My boss gave me call. The county commissioner. He gave me a call. In the middle of the night.”

Derek rubs his palms together, nods slowly. “You’re in trouble?” he guesses. The sheriff chuckles mirthlessly.

“Well, he said very interested in sitting down and having a long conversation. He wants me to clarify certain discrepancies in the overtime authorization sheets. Says he’s 

‘confused’ about what exactly I have my officers spending their time working on. So yeah. I’m about to walk in there and fall on my own sword, so to speak.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Derek says, and he’s surprised by how much he means it. “I know you were trying to do the right thing.”

The sheriff fixes him with a calculating, shrewd look. “I’m going to walk in there,” he repeats. “And I’m going to face the consequences. Whatever they may be. And I’m going to do that for my son. Not for you. Not to protect you and your secrets.”

Derek swallows. “I understand.”

The sheriff stands, straightens his collar. He looks down at Derek. “Don’t make me regret giving you a chance. I think it goes without saying, but if you hurt him, I will bury you. And that’s not an expression.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns away and walks off down the hall. His footsteps fade away as he reaches the elevator, and Derek is left alone. He listens for a minute to the hum of the vending machine, then reaches into his pocket for a dollar and goes to buy himself a soda.

 

**X.**

The summer heat is coming on strong now. The skies are impossibly blue. Deep in the darkness of the woods and far from the walking trail, there is a patch of earth untouched by the grass and leaves. A smooth ovule of dirt, an unmarked grave.

The woman buried there will have no visitors. Her resting place will remain unknown to most. She exists now, only in memory. Returned to the earth. 

Forgotten by time.


	11. summer daze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight time jump from the end of the last chapter; in case that's not obvious straight away.

**I.**

It’s the hottest summer in recent history. Down on the street corner at the base of the hill leading up around the back of the school, a fire hydrant bursts and floods half of the roadway. Children from the nearby housing developments come out in swimming suits and tank tops to play in the spray. Access to the high school parking lot is blocked by road spikes, fence wire stretched out along the perimeter - courtesy of the board of administration, who recently opted to spend a large chunk of the year’s budget on security after all the break-ins over the past semester.

There is steam rising up off the pavement. Kids with lips stained blue and red with popsicle juice crouch on the sidewalk with chalk on their hands, laughing and chattering and drawing oversized pictures of stick figures and fuzzy animals. The whirring of a lawnmower churning up the yard across the way fades into white noise as the aroma of the freshly cut grass fills Derek’s nostrils. He stretches his arms above his head, arching backwards into the rocking chair. He squints as the light of the sun begins to peer in beneath the cover of the roof overhang.

The screen door squeaks open, and Stiles comes out of the house to sit with him on the porch. “Lunch is almost ready,” he says.

Derek nods, reaches out to grab his wrist. Squeezes. “Yeah, okay.” He pats the chair next to his. “Sit with me for a bit.”

Stiles obliges, falling into his seat all lanky-legged and sprawled lazily. He threads his fingers through Derek’s, disregarding their sweaty palms.

Across the street, the front yard sprinklers kick to life and the children on the sidewalk run through its stream, feet stomping gleefully on the wet green blades. From behind, Derek can hear the sheriff bustling about inside the house, gathering up plates from the kitchen cabinets and slicing deli meat for the sandwiches. He’s talking with Isaac, voices low and hushed, too quiet to eavesdrop.

The sky cloudless.

“I talked to Scott about the mountain thing,” Stiles says abruptly, jerking Derek out of his private thoughts. “For the full moon. You still want to go, right?”

Derek hums agreeably. “Yeah. I scouted it out last week, just to be sure there weren’t any cabins in the area. It’s all good.”

Stiles shifts slightly in his chair, twisting over on his side. He rubs his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand. “Okay, well I talked to Scott, and he says he’s down with it if Allison can come.” Derek frowns.

“He doesn’t have to ask anymore.” Stiles looks satisfied, turns away with a slight smile. Derek coughs. “Speaking of her, though...” He scratches his cheek. Stiles glances at him.

“Hmm?”

Derek shrugs. “Just, how are things? With her and her parents?” Stiles grimaces.

“Oh.” He sighs. “You know. Pretty much the same, I guess. They’re not objecting to the relationship anymore - mostly to try and get on her good side - but she still won’t talk to them unless it’s about school stuff.” He makes a face. “I can’t say I blame her, though. They kinda deserve it for the whole ‘oh, we’re just gonna chain you up and go kill your boyfriend, if that’s cool’ thing.”

“Lunch, boys!” the sheriff calls, poking his head through the door. He retreats back inside, and Stiles and Derek stand up slowly.

“Tell Scott it’s fine if she comes,” Derek says. He holds the door open, waits for Stiles to step inside before following behind. 

A toilet flushes down the hall, followed up by running water in the sink. Isaac comes out of the bathroom, moving gingerly towards the kitchen, leaning most of his weight on his cane. He stops near the refrigerator. “Need any help, sir?” he asks, blinks at Stiles’ father.

The sheriff smiles at him. “There’s a pitcher of tea behind the milk, if you’d like to bring that over. Thanks.”

Isaac smiles back, goes to open the fridge. His injuries have been getting better - healing slower without the benefit of the bite, but still, he’s healing. He’s refused to let the cane inhibit him, gotten angry at anyone who looks at him like a cripple. [“I’m not going to let my life be about _this_ ,” he’d told Stiles one night, staying up late and studying for finals week. “It’s a thing that happened, and it’s a thing I’ll live with, but it’s not what makes me _me_.”]

He’s never been bitter about it, even from the get go. For everyone else, however, it remains a source of guilt, of sadness. The cane, for them, is the memory of things left unsolved.

[The handcuffs digging into Allison’s wrists, pleas falling on deaf ears as Chris and Victoria close the door behind them. Mara’s body splitting in two, blood splattering against the walls. Scott crowding Jackson away from the debris, shielding him with his body.]

The sheriff yawns loudly, setting the forks and knives down in their places at the table. “Ugh, excuse me. Long night again yesterday.”

Stiles takes a huge bite out of his sandwich, shoots his father a reproachful glare. “I still don’t understand why you have to stay so late just to fill out a bunch of bullshit forms for re-zoning, or whatever they have you working on now...”

“Language, son,” the sheriff says mildly, taking the pitcher of tea from Isaac. “And no, it’s not all important work. _Most_ of it probably isn’t, but I’m not exactly in a position to complain about it. Getting chained to a desk is better than getting fired.” He takes an apple slice from the fruit plate in the center of the table. “That’s something you should keep in mind for the future.”

Stiles huffs quietly. “ _Still_. You could at least bring some of it home and get a good night’s sleep in your own bed. Like a person.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes. “Sure, in the fantasy world you live in where people can just take things from police headquarters without authorization.” He grins at Stiles’ indignant expression. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s not allowed.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” Stiles says unthinkingly. It comes out teasingly, but he cringes as soon as the words slip out. “Uh...too soon?”

Derek snorts, shoving a fist up to his mouth to stifle his laughter. The sheriff glances at him, mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. Isaac grins, pouring Stiles a glass of tea.

These meals have become a sort of unofficial tradition; just something that the four of them do once a week, to sit down together and exist in the same room without the distractions of outside life. It was tense at first - still is in some ways - but things seem to be headed in the right direction. 

When the plates are cleared and the pitcher is empty, Isaac and the sheriff stand together at the sink at talk while washing dishes, and Stiles goes to walk Derek to the door. He steps up on his tip-toes and shoves Derek against the wall, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Did you see that?” he whispers enthusiastically, pulling away, beaming. “He actually smiled at you! I mean, it was only for a second, and it was mostly about something I did, but _still_. He smiled at you!”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite muster the energy to rearrange his face into a scowl. He settles on a smirk instead. “He still doesn’t trust me,” he murmurs, bending his neck, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’. “Don’t get too excited.” Stiles waves dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, dude. Give it another month and you two will be best buds.” His grin freezes, starts to twist into abject horror. “Oh, shit. You’ll be _friends_.” He pokes Derek in the chest, expression accusing. “If he offers to show you baby pictures, you _refuse_. You say you have no interest in anything of the sort. I mean it, Derek.”

Derek backs away from the wall, twisting the handle of the screen door. “No promises,” he replies, chuckling at Stiles’ face as he steps outside.

 

**II.**

Switching up their typical roles, Allison is the one to scale the walls tonight, climbing up the tree branches in the warm dusk and gripping hard to the frame around the glass as she plants her shoes down in between the gutters and the shingles. 

The lights in the bedroom are off, and the humming of the air conditioner is the only sound cutting through the quiet of the McCall house. Allison frowns, looking around. She steps out into the hall, glancing right and left. The bar of light shining beneath the bathroom door catches her eye, and she goes to investigate, recoiling at the pungent herbal smell that greets her.

Scott is sitting up on the rim of the sink with rolled joint in hand, blowing smoke into the vent above his head and flicking ash into the toilet bowl down below. He wheels around when Allison opens the door, eyes going wide and guilty, all deer-in-the-headlights. It’s such a funny expression, Allison can’t quite maintain her stern glare. “Scott!” she reprimands, voice wavering in the middle of a laugh.

He looks down at his feet, apologetic, then raises his head, lips curled back in a goofy, blissed-out grin. “It was either this or steal some of my mom’s beer. And I can’t get drunk, so...”

Allison closes the door, fanning the smoke away from her face. She moves delicately around to sit on the edge of the bathtub, holds out a palm and waggles her fingers beckoningly. Scott raises an eyebrow. She raises one in reply. “You might as well have some company,” she says innocently.

Scott shrugs, grinning. He passes the joint over, watching in amusement as Allison takes a huge hit and starts coughing. “Your parents would be so proud,” he says, then immediately looks embarrassed, wary.

Allison isn’t fazed. “Fuck them,” she says casually, passing the joint back. She watches Scott sucking on the wet end of the tightly rolled paper, eyes flickering up to the wisps of smoke disappearing into the vent. Out of everyone in the pack, Scott probably looks like he’s aged the most; he’s trimmed his shaggy down significantly - spiked up in the front and up top - and he’s started growing a beard and mustache. It suits him, makes him look more mature. Allison shifts to lean against the wall, brings her knees up to her chest and balances on the bathtub rim. “So,” she says, yawning, “is this a recreational high, or are you trying to drown your sorrows?”

“Heh.” Scott takes another hit, flakes of ash breaking free around the glowing end of the paper. He flicks it into the toilet, offers the joint to Allison. She takes it from him, drawing in a long breath. “Maybe a little of both? Mostly the sorrows thing.”

“I see.” Allison blinks rapidly, lightheaded all of the sudden. She finishes off the marijuana, throws the remains in with the ash. Scott flushes the toilet. “What do you have to be sad about?”

Scott hops down from the sink, slinks down to rest with his back against the wall. He blinks owlishly, looking up at her. “Not sad. Just...” He shrugs, looks away. Stares at the door. “I told my mom.”

Allison’s mouth drops open. She closes it quickly, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing intently. “Told her...what? Everything?” Scott chuckles mirthlessly.

“Pretty much.” His head lolls to the side, eyes unfocused as he picks at his fingernails. He grinds his teeth together distractedly. The fan above whirs on, the smell in the room slowly dissipating. “I figured since Stiles’ dad knows, it made sense to tell her.” He sighs, drops his face to rest in his hands. “I was just so tired of lying. Too many lies. Keeping secrets from the people I care about.”

“How’d she take it?” Allison scoots off the edge of the bathtub, moves to sit beside him. Scott keeps his face buried in his hands. 

“You know. Like you’d expect. She thought I was crazy at first, then she thought I was on drugs. And then I _showed_ her...” Allison winces. “Yeah. So, she’s at work now, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when she gets home. I just hope she doesn’t hate me.”

He swallows, and his voice sounds stretched thin, like he’s right on the verge of tears. Allison puts her arm around his shoulder, rubs his arm comfortingly.

By the time they move to the bedroom, the high has started to kick in. They lie side by side on top of the covers, nestled in the warm summer dark, blazed and content, staring unblinkingly at the patterns of uneven brushstrokes in the ceiling paintwork. Their hands drift close together, almost but not quite touching - just enough to reassure one another of each other’s presence.

Allison’s head rolls to the left, and she’s staring at Scott’s face, watching him talk. He’s saying something about Derek, and about how he said it was okay for her to come on the full moon trip this weekend. He’s talking and talking, and then she interrupts. On impulse:

“I think maybe we should break up.”

The words just slide out, and she lies there, waiting. Waiting for the feelings of guilt and panic and sadness to settle in, to take hold. But they don’t come. She listens to the words rolling around in her head and in her ears, and she hears the truth in them. The rightness. It's eerie how normal it feels.

Scott stops talking, and he turns to look at her. She’s expecting to see betrayal and hurt, or at least shock or confusion. But instead he’s calm, calculating. He’s looking at her very carefully, and his face is a mixture of guilt and relief and some other indefinable emotion; something she can’t identify.

“Okay,” Scott says softly, easily. As soon as he says it, Allison realizes that they’ve been headed here for a long time. Just not for the reasons everyone has been telling them they’re not right for each other.

They’ve been slipping into a new dynamic - a slow change. She was first made aware of it the night Stiles and Isaac were attacked and Mara died, but in hindsight, she knows that it goes back further. The problems run deeper. Sure, they hold hands and laugh at each other’s jokes, they enjoy each other’s company and like making out. But looking at Scott now, she sees a friend. Maybe even a brother.

And while they might both be pack, they aren’t pack in the same way. For all his moaning and hesitation and initial reluctance, Scott has been drawn into the fold completely. Inexorably. He sees these people as his family.

Allison sees them as her friends. It’s love and it matters, but it isn’t the same. And the lie can’t continue.

“I fucked Jackson,” Scott says, and he turns away from her to stare at the ceiling. The relief is still there, still in his face, but it’s overshadowed now by self-loathing. It looks wrong on him, and Allison just wants to hold his hand and squeeze tight until everything is okay again. “Lydia’s been telling me to confess it for a while now, but I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to hurt you.” He cringes, mouth drawing into a thin line. “Which...is sort of bullshit. Because I was mostly just protecting myself from the embarrassment of admitting I did something wrong.” 

He falls silent. Allison scoots closer, lying on her side. She’s surprised by how calm she feels. Not indifferent, but not angry. “Go on,” she murmurs.

Scott turns to look at her, unblinking. “It only happened once, and I felt like shit as soon as it was over. I don’t really know _why_ it happened, even after all this time. But it did, and I’m sorry. And you deserve better.”

Allison closes her eyes, chest tightening up. She presses her face against Scott’s shoulder. “That’s not why I’m doing this,” she whispers into his sleeve. “I mean...” She pulls away, looks up into his eyes. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. That things are different. That we’re not the same.”

“I have,” Scott says, so earnest and disgustingly sweet. Almost sweet enough to make Allison reconsider.

“You’re one of the most important people in my life,” she says. “And I don’t - I _can’t_ lose that. I’ve lost too much already.” She licks her lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. “I’ve lost respect for my parents. For the aunt whom I still can’t figure out how to mourn, or if I even want to.” She grabs his hand, holds tight. “If we stay together, just for the sake of some stupid notion we once had that we were ‘meant to be,’ then we’re just going to end up resenting each other. And I don’t want that. I care about you too much to let that happen.”

Scott bites his lip. There’s a tear rolling down his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. You’re right.” He draws in a deep breath, slow and shuddering. He blinks, barks out a quiet little laugh. “I feel like you should at least hit me or something. I cheated on you.”

Allison flashes him a watery smile. “I dunno. I think I’m too high right now. Maybe I’ll kick you in the balls tomorrow?”

“I’d like that,” Scott replies, and he sounds so sincere, they both burst out laughing. 

And they laugh until they cry. And then they laugh some more.

“Oh, man,” Allison chokes out, wiping her eyes. “Look at us. What a pair.”

Scott has a pillow shoved against his face, smothering his giggles. Pulling away, he looks over at her, smile slipping into something impossibly fond, deeply serious. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he mumbles.

And he’s said it before - hundreds of times, probably - but it’s never sounded quite so genuine. Allison cranes her neck and presses a soft kiss against his lips, chaste, affectionate.

They curl up together in a ball of warmth, ignoring the sweat, and they fall asleep wondering how the hell something so painful ended up being so easy.

 

**III.**

Derek twists the nickel, frowning at the screeching sound of the screw driving back into the grate over the vent. He coughs, rising to his feet with an armful of cash.

“Every time we do this, I feel like we’re bank robbers,” he grumbles, dumping the money into Jackson’s open duffel bag.

“I was thinking more along the lines of drug dealers,” Jackson drawls. “But whatever analogy floats your boat, dude.” He smirks at Derek’s scowl, zips up the bag and slings the strap over his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you, Alpha man. As always.” 

“Don’t get cocky,” Derek warns - probably for about the thousandth time. Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Yep.” His eyes flicker down towards the grate, lips pursed in curiosity. “How much do we have left, you think?”

“Plenty,” Derek replies, clipped. “And there’s no reason to change the routine. We’ve been careful so far, and it’s worked. Careful and lucky, I should say. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jackson’s face scrunches up in irritation. “Jesus, you seriously need to learn to start trusting me more.”

Derek nudges him towards the stairs. “I do trust you. But I also trust you to be _you_ , and you’re not always the greatest decision maker.”

Jackson looks offended, but also a little amused. “Hmmph. Fair enough.” He bounds up the stairs, clutching tight to his bag like it’s a lifeline. “Also, before I forget, what time are we supposed to meet up on Friday? Lydia told me to ask.”

“Seven in the morning,” Derek says. “And be on time.”

Jackson retreats into the upstairs hall. Derek pauses on the top step and turns around to flick off the lights. He hesitates with his hand on the switch, eyes lingering on the dark stain in the corner of the basement.

[They’d been able to clean most of the mess off the walls and ceiling, but the blood on the floor had left a permanent mark. Derek had wanted to cover it up, but Allison talked him out of it. “We it owe it to her,” she’d said, and Derek hadn’t been able to think of an answer to that.]

He flicks the switch, casting the room into shadow. Closing the door, he follows Jackson out into the foyer. 

“You know, there are some pretty good pictures of everybody in the new yearbook,” Jackson says, examining the photos hanging in the main hall. “I could have them blown up at the copy shop, frame them for you. If you want.”

Derek holds back a smile. “Yeah, bring it by for the next meeting. We’ll pick out the best ones.”

Jackson’s phone rings. He fishes around in his pocket and retrieves it, squints at the caller ID. “Gotta take this,” he tells Derek. “I’m meeting up with Lydia and Danny for bowling later.” He brings the cell up to his ear, pauses. “You don’t want to come, do you?” Derek shakes his head.

“No, you go ahead.”

Jackson waves in parting, hoisting the duffel bag higher on his shoulder as he steps out onto the porch. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, I’m just coming from Derek’s...”

The door snaps shut. Derek retreats back into the kitchen, wiping the residual vent dust away from his hands. He’s pouring himself a glass of milk when his own cell starts to go off.

“Hello?”

“I just went up to the attic to get my sleeping bag, and it’s totally ripped to shreds.”

Derek frowns, stares at his phone. “Hi, Stiles. What’s - your attic’s ripped to shreds?”

Stiles makes an impatient noise. “No, my sleeping bag. Obviously. How can an _attic_ be-”

“What would you like me to do about it?” Derek interrupts.

“I dunno? Be a good boyfriend and buy me a new one. A green one with camouflage patterns and a rollup pillow. And a cup holder.”

Derek takes a drink, smacks his lips. “Sleeping bags don’t have cup holders. Also, no. Buy it yourself. Or make your dad buy you one.”

“He already said no,” Stiles whines. “Something about us not being able to afford ‘unnecessary items’ because of his pay reduction. Come on...”

“I’ll ask Danny if he has an extra,” Derek yawns. 

Stiles huffs in grudging assent. “Ugh. Fine. Just make sure he checks for holes. Raccoons might have gotten into his attic, too. You never know.” He hangs up.

The dial tone blares, and Derek is left staring at the phone in his hand, wondering when exactly his life stopped being a nightmare and turned into a domestic sitcom. It’s not that he’s against it, per se. He just isn’t accustomed to long periods of peace and relaxation.

Not without the promise of impending doom lurking just around the corner.

 

**IV.**

Friday morning is the coolest it’s been all week, and there’s a mild breeze whipping at their cheeks as they gather together in front of the Stilinski’s house.

“A couple of you are going to have to park your cars down the street,” the sheriff says, nudging Jackson to get back into the car. “I’m going to get complaints if we hog up the block.”

Stiles and Danny hunch over together around the Porsche, chattering away.

“It’s in good condition,” Danny insists, pushing the sleeping bag into Stiles’ chest. “It’s fine, I swear. Don’t be so picky.”

“Easy for you to say! You’ve got your fur and wolfy body heat to keep you comfortable. I have to rely on more primitive methods.”

“I’m not sure how a sleeping bag is more primitive than body heat, but okay...”

Stiles yelps as Scott sneaks up from behind and jumps on top of him, clinging on like an octopus. “Dude! Too heavy!”

Scott laughs and drops away, ruffles Stiles’ hair and ignores the withering glare he receives in turn. “Ready to go? Get pumped!”

Lydia winces at the yelling, twists a finger in her ear. She points at Scott. “Whatever car he’s in, I would like to be in the other one, please.”

Allison steps out of Lydia’s car, chuckling at Scott’s wounded expression. Derek and the sheriff stand off to the side, muttering in low voices. Melissa hangs near, listening in on the conversation. 

“You’re sure they’ll be safe?” the sheriff confirms, eyes steely. “I don’t like the idea of them being out with you on a full moon.”

“Allison brought a jar of Mountain Ash powder,” Derek dismisses. “They’ll be perfectly safe.”

“And you have my number? In case of an emergency?”

Derek feels his mouth twitch, but he manages to refrain from smiling. “Well, _I_ won’t be in any state to call you if something goes wrong, but I have a feeling Stiles knows how to get in touch with you.”

The sheriff coughs. “Yes, well. Alright. Just being careful.”

Jackson slinks in between Lydia and Allison, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. Lydia pretends to shrug away, snorting at Jackson’s indignant expression. Allison just smiles.

The cars are all packed up by the time the sun is peeking over the trees, light splayed out in hazy patterns over the newly paved street. The sheriff pulls Stiles into a tight hug, claps him on the back. “Be safe,” he says, letting him go. “Have fun.”

“Love you, Dad,” Stiles calls, waving as he hops up into the Camaro’s shotgun seat.

“Sir,” Derek says respectfully. The two men exchange a brief nod, and Derek turns, whistles for Danny to follow.

Isaac stands close by Melissa, leaning on his cane. Stiles notices him watching, flashes an apologetic smile. “Next time, dude!” he says. “I promise.” Isaac rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyway.

Scott pulls away from the group, walks over to his mother. His face is guarded, closed off. Shy, even. Melissa’s wary expression softens, and she beckons him forwards, wraps him into a long embrace. 

“Be safe, sweetheart,” she whispers.

Scott murmurs something in her ear, too quietly for even the other wolves to pick up. She blinks in surprise, smiles at him. He squeezes her hand and backs away, waves goodbye.

He piles into the backseat of Danny’s car with Lydia and Allison, head falling back against the leather cushion as the engine kicks to life. Derek’s car pulls into reverse and backs out of park, pausing for a second before switching to drive and heading off down the street. Danny’s car follows, and then they’re out of sight.

Melissa and the sheriff watch them go, exchanging a glance before turning back to go inside the house. Isaac stays outside in the yard for a few more minutes. The sun comes out in full, and the birds take flight from the rooftop down the block.

They begin to sing.

 

**V.**

Far beneath the snowy peaks, mist is settling in a ring around the mountain range. From the canyon ridge road where the car park overlooks the sparse forest and sweeping grasslands, the fog very nearly resembles a halo; a crown encircling the towering spires of grey boulder and chipped stone, an ethereal brushstroke to complete the scenic vista.

The pack stands together in awe, walking slowly away from the cars with their bags strapped over their backs, stopping just short of the rim where the earth is eroding into soft soil.

“Wow,” Stiles murmurs. Everyone hums in agreement. Even Jackson seems all out of sarcasm.

“It’s beautiful, Derek,” Lydia says, touching her hand to the nape of the Alpha’s neck. 

Derek surveys the landscape, standing at the head of the group. “Let’s go,” he says.

It’s a long hike, but they’re all in shape, and no one complains. Their jackets are bundled up tight, zipped up to neck and rustling in the breeze as they follow in line along the winding trail.

There are goats climbing the wall of rock, seen down below as dark specks against the grey. Scattered about, withered trunks of leafless trees sprout up from amidst the weeds, and the pack reach out as one as they pass, brushing the tips of their fingers against the ancient wood. The path itself is worn down with crisp grass and hard dirt, made uneven with tiny pebbles lodged underground.

Further along, the green begins to disperse, and the cold grows harsher. Stiles shivers in the chill, and Scott skips up ahead to stand beside him, wrap an arm around his friend and keep him warm.

Derek glances back. “It’ll be better when we get there,” he says. “Trust me.”

Jackson and Danny break off gnarled chunks of wood from a fallen log and fashion them into walking sticks, using their claws to carve off the splintered edges. Down in the grasslands, a flock of sheep can be spotted as a swarming mass of matted fleece, grazing in number on the closest hilltop beneath the gathering wisps of cheerful white clouds.

The path begins to turn steep, and the pack trudges on in zig-zag formation, hand pressed down against their knees for support. Up ahead, the rim of next level curves like the arch of a bow. Derek points.

“Almost there,” he says. “Just push on a little further.”

Allison’s cheeks are tinged pink with the bite of the wind, and she squeezes in close to Lydia, whose fuzzy parka is doing her little good against the freeze. Stiles stumbles, caught by Scott before falling face first into the dirt.

Derek is the first to reach the top. He pulls himself up to full height, mouth stretched back in a grin, cracked lips slowly healing as he walks out of the pack’s view. The others follow, helping each other over the rim one by one and stepping down into the enclave.

And what a wondrous sight:

It’s akin to stumbling across an oasis in the desert; a great tree is sprung up in the middle of valley formed by the towering walls of twin stone peaks, somehow free of the snow that dominates the higher regions of such terrain. Thick, lustrous grass carpets the ground and gives shelter to the peculiar breed of blue flowers poking their drooping heads up through the green. Twisted vines hang in a curtain all around the giant trunk, giving it the appearance of a willow tree; though it is not quite. Ovular stones - egg shaped, one might argue - peek out of the dirt in number all over the land, spread out as far as the valley goes.

And the air is cool - comfortably so, lacking in the stifling warmth of the summer sun or the bitter chill of the mountain wind.

“What is this place?” Danny breathes, eyes wide, disbelieving.

Derek watches the kids’ faces with no small amount of amusement. “My family used to come here when I was young. Every year, we would hike up together and camp for the night.” He steps forward, walking towards the tree. A flurry of fireflies shoot up from the grass and fly out in all directions, sharing their golden glow. “My father said it was a sacred place, very special to our kind. He never told me why, though.”

“It’s so peaceful,” Lydia murmurs, reaching out to allow a firefly to touch down on her forefinger.

Derek bobs his head absently. “We can’t stop the shift,” he says. “The full moon will always make us turn. But it hurts less here. Something in this place calms the beast.”

Stiles drops his bag to the ground, walks closer. He takes Derek’s hand in his, joins him in surveying the beauty around them. “It’s perfect,” he says softly.

Behind them, snow drifts down from the mountain peaks in a silent shower. The wind is quiet, and the world is still.

 

**VI.**

As the dark grows thicker, Allison takes to setting camp, unzipping her bag and removing her jar, spreading out a generous line of Mountain Ash in a protective circle around herself and Stiles. They lay out their sleeping bags and sit on opposite sides of a shallow pit, warming their hands in the heat of a crackling fire. Smoke wafts upward in spirals and fills their nostrils, reminding them of childhood and memories long forgotten. 

The others begin to shift.

With their clothes laid out in a row on a log, they’re each of them naked, all crouched close together, skin rippling in the soft glow of the firelight and the tail ends of the lightning bugs. It’s fascinating to watch: the slow shift as the full moon shines bright, a turning without pain. Always eager and on the edge, Jackson finishes first, raising his head to let out a musical howl, bounding off into the field of curious ovular stones. Scott is soon to follow, claws ripping through the grass as he tracks Jackson’s scent and disappears into the fog.

Lydia and Danny shift and whimper, growling at each other and snapping their jaws. Derek looms over them, eyes burning with roiling red fire. He snarls, and they quiet down, necks bared in submission. Bending in close, he licks a trail up Lydia’s throat, turns and repeats the gesture with Danny; it’s playful, teasing. A challenge, maybe.

Letting loose a thunderous bellow, Derek charges off in the opposite direction of Scott and Jackson, turning around a bend with his nose low to the ground. Danny yips and scrambles after him. Lydia, too; although she takes pause, turning her gaze upon Allison  and Stiles, expression shrewd and assessing. The humans look back at her, unafraid within the safety of the magic ring. Lydia snuffles, sneezes, crouching back on her hind legs before disappearing after the pack.

And then all falls quiet.

Allison turns away, rubbing her palms in front of the fire. “It’s amazing here,” she says. Stiles nods.

“I know.”

The mist gathers in close around the circle of ash, passing over in a thin haze between their sleeping bags. Stiles shifts to recline, propping his head up with a bunched-up pillow. Allison sits cross legged, pink tinge fading from her cheeks. The howling of the wolves in the distance echoes through the canyon, reverberating off the walls. Looking skyward, the two teenagers can see the jagged tips of the mountain peaks pointing directly towards the full moon hanging in suspension, an immense disc of unearthly power. 

Allison’s small smile fades, and she gazes into the flames with a focused intensity, brooding. She sets her tongue into the corner of her cheek. “Scott and I broke up,” she says after a while, looking at Stiles out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his reaction. 

He shrugs lightly, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Yeah, he told me the day after.” A pause. “How are you doing with it? I mean...I know you were the one to cut it off, but still.”

Allison prods the fire with a short stick, careful not to burn herself. “I dunno,” she mumbles, watching the embers crumble. “A lot better than I expected. Is that bad?”

Stiles hums. He closes his eyes, tucking his hands behind his head. “Nah. Not unless you want it to be.” He curls his toes inside his socks, popping the stiff joints. “I love you both, but I always privately thought that you rushed into everything really quickly.” He shrugs again. “Scott’s always been really dramatic, so I wasn’t exactly surprised when he fell head-over-heels for you straight away.” He opens his eyes, mouth twisting into an encouraging smile. “On the bright side of things, at least it ended mutually. Like, he didn’t do something stupid and break your heart.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t respond, poking the fire for another minute before crawling inside her sleeping back and watching the embers slowly die.

Stiles falls asleep quickly, but Allison stays awake for some time, unable to drift into unconsciousness. She listens to the sound of Stiles’ steady breathing and tries to reconcile the conflicting emotions at war in her heart. Anger and relief, exhaustion and happiness, sadness and hope.

Every now and then, she can spot the murky movements of a wolf’s shadow out in the fog. Like puppets on strings, they dance under the spell of the moonlight amidst the smooth boulders and soft grass. The vines hang low on the trees, touching the ground and rocking in the gentlest of breezes. A howl echoes through the canyon. 

The fire dies in a puff of smoke, and the remnants whisk away into time and memory. 

 

**VII.**

The men agree to meet at a diner off the highway; the very same where Mara, under the influence of her possessor, unleashed the bloodbath just last spring. The walls and floors have been remade, laid out with red and white checkered tile and false woodwork. The resulting ambience is something artificially homey.

Chris arrives just past nine, looking odd in shorts and a t-shirt. It’s a weirdly domestic sight. The sheriff is already there, seated in a corner booth and flipping through a menu.

He looks up at the ringing of the doorbell. “They have good pancakes here,” he says, pushing a menu to the other side of the table as Chris sits down.

A blonde waitress in a tight-fitting blouse comes over with a notepad, chewing noisily on a stick of gum. Chris rubs his palms together, still sweating from his morning run, looking around as the sheriff gives his order. 

The place is mostly empty - probably struggling with business after the attacks - but a pair of elderly women are sitting at the counter with glasses of orange juice, and a family of four is seated in the booth nearest the door. There’s a jukebox squashed in between the coffee maker and the steel refrigerator back behind the bar, all shiny and plasticky. It’s churning out The Stones [“Thru and Thru” by the sound of it], and playing low beneath the helicopter whistling of the ceiling fans turned up to full blast.

“Stones fan?” Chris asks disinterestedly. He turns to the waitress and forces a polite smile, says he’ll just have a coffee, black.

The sheriff shrugs, placing the menus back in their holders next to the salt and pepper shakers. “I didn’t really catch up with them until their later years. You know how people always say you can either be a Beatles man or Stones man, but not both?”

Chris arches an eyebrow. “Not sure I’ve ever heard that.”

“Hmm. Well, I was always more of Beatles guy.” He props his chin up in his palm, skin crinkling around his eyes as he squints out through the blinds at the cloudy sky and the street below. “I’m sure I have all of the old vinyl record stashed somewhere in the attic.”

“I lost all of mine,” Chris says. The waitress returns and sets a mug of lukewarm coffee in front of him, flounces away. “I left all of those sorts of things with my father when I moved away and got married. Doubt he ever kept them.”

The resulting silence is made manageable only by the constant stream of background noise; soft playing music and restless chatter, whirring fans and humming mechanisms. 

The sheriff is frowning now, looks like he wants to ask, to pursue. But in the end, he lets it drop. Probably in the interest of not becoming an accessory after the fact. Instead he says, “So, tell me what you’ve learned.”

Chris pulls his shoulders up tight, lets them sag. He flicks a packet of sugar and toys with the idea of emptying the contents into his coffee before deciding against it. He takes a sip. “Not much, still. It would help to have at least a vague starting point. Whatever killed that girl, it’s unlike anything I’ve come across in all the years I’ve been doing this thing.” He sighs.

“Your research hasn’t turned up anything?” the sheriff presses. “No hints?”

“Like I said, I’m not sure where to start. There’s nothing in the common lore that even resembles this.” Chris rubs the curve of the mug, lip caught between his teeth, thinking. “I mean, the kanima is a snake-based creature, but we’re clearly not dealing with that.”

The sheriff snorts. “Yes. _Clearly_. Because all of this is so natural.”

Chris drains the remainder of his cup. “After a certain point, you’ll learn to balance skepticism with a healthy understanding that anything is possible in this fucked up world of ours.”

The sheriff looks somewhat mollified, slumping back in his chair. The guitars twinge out a harmonious melody from the speaker box, Keith Richards crooning over the instruments. The elderly ladies at the counter pay for their food and shuffle out the door, purses dangling from their elbows, pants riding high on their waists. The father at the table of four yells angrily as the youngest child spills her drink onto the floor, and the blonde waitress scurries over quickly with a washcloth to wipe it up.

“Do you think it will come back?” the sheriff asks quietly.

Chris pushes his empty mug away, folds his arms and leans back against the stuffed cushion of the booth bench. He sucks on the inside of his cheek, glances out the window. “No reason to think it will. The girl said she ran across it out in the woods, which would imply that she stumbled upon its territory and it attacked defensively. I doubt it’s a predator. We’d have encountered it long before now if that was the case.” He fishes out his wallet, flipping through the crumpled bills. “Still, I’ll keep looking, just in case. It never hurts to be cautious.”

The sheriff runs tired hands over his face, breathes out through his nose. “Never hurts,” he agrees.

 

**VIII.**

The pack crashes at Derek’s place after coming home from the full moon rendezvous. Jackson goes down to the basement without a word to anyone, flopping down on the couch to pass out. Danny and Lydia trail behind, arms slung loosely across one another’s shoulders.

Scott jingles his keys, rubbing his scratchy cheeks. “I think I’m gonna head home for a while,” he yawns. “My mom has the night off, so...” He flaps an arm meaninglessly. "I'll head back over in a few hours. I just want to hang out with her."

Derek waves vaguely. “Yeah, see you soon then.” Allison stumbles in through the front door, Stiles at her heels. Scott turns to her.

“Hey. Wanna ride back to your place?”

She grimaces, shakes her head. “Nah, I think I’m just going to sleep here tonight. Not really in the mood to deal with Victoria’s bullshit.” It’s just one of the many little rebellions she’s allowed herself, Derek has noticed: refusing to say “Mom” and “Dad.” 

Scott nods and jerks his head in a parting nod. "See you in a bit." He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder as he passes, stretching his arm behind his back as he steps out onto the porch.

Allison walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Stiles sneaks up close to Derek and leans into his side. “Upstairs?” he murmurs. Derek kisses the top of his head, nudging him towards the steps.

Up in the master bedroom, the curl together under the sheets, Derek pressed tight against Stiles’ back, comfortable despite the stickiness of the summer heat. Stiles arches into the touch, tilting his throat back and resting his cheek against Derek’s.

“This morning I was thinking about that little seaside restaurant you took me to,” he says. “I was thinking maybe we could go back sometime. Take the pack with us, go to the beach.”

Derek’s breath tickles the nape of his neck, raising the ghostly thin hairs to attention. “We could do that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles pulls away and rests his head on the pillow. His belly rises and falls under the curved hold of Derek’s arm around his waist. “Remember all the pictures on the wall? And how I wondered whether or not they were stock photos or actual friends of the owners?”

Derek shakes his head, snorts. “Any particular reason for the trip down memory lane?”

“No reason.” Stiles hooks his leg in between Derek’s, pulling him closer. “There doesn’t always have to be a reason, you know. We can just talk about stuff. Stupid stuff.”

“You have Scott for stupid stuff.”

Stiles kicks him. “Shut up. You know you love to hear me talk.”

Derek smiles lazily, eyes fluttering closed. “Against my better judgment, yes. I do.” They’re quiet for some time, not sleeping exactly, but coming up right on the edge. Stiles’ breathing is just beginning to even out into snoring when Derek chooses to speak again. “You know, Scott has a new anchor.”

“Hmm?” Stiles lifts his head slightly, halfway lucid. “Whassat?”

Derek rolls over on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He keeps an arm around hooked around Stiles’ neck, hand stroking the boy’s chest. “I think it’s Jackson.”

Stiles sits up, leaning back against the headboard. He’s fully awake now. “What? What are you talking about?”

“It used to be Allison, but I haven’t really picked up that sense in a while...”

“Oh.” Stiles frowns, scratches his head. He rests his leg flush against Derek’s, reaches out to run his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Well, they broke up. So that’s probably it.”

Derek looks up at him, surprised. “When was this?”

“Just a few days ago. Don’t worry, it’s not like they’ve been lying to you. And Allison still wants to be part of the pack, obviously...” Stiles trails off, looking around the room. He pauses, remembering something, turns back sharply. “But wait - what does this have to do with Jackson? You mentioned him.”

“Oh.” Derek’s confused expression vanishes, giving way to thoughtful contemplation. “Up in the mountains, during the full moon. Just something about their dynamic struck me as different. It’s hard to explain.”

Stiles settles down, sliding back under the covers and closing his eyes. “That’s weird. I’ll ask Scott about it tomorrow. Or whenever.”

Derek makes a noncommittal sound, tucks his hands behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling long after Stiles falls asleep, deep in thought. 

Dust is settling on the windowsill. The moon outside is hidden by the clouds.

Out in the backyard, Allison is standing with a bottle of Coke, glass sweating against her fingers, dripping with foam and moisture. Her hair is a mess, uncombed and hanging in thick curtains around her eyes. She brushes her bangs away from her face, takes a sip of her drink as she gazes out into the trees.

The door behind squeaks as it opens, and Lydia comes out into the yard to join her. The two girls stand side by side, close but not quite touching.

Lydia’s mouth slants in a self-punishing smile. “Forgive me for not telling?” she asks.

Allison rolls her eyes, presses her shoulder against her friend’s. “There’s nothing to forgive. Scott’s your friend, too. It would have been a betrayal of his trust if you told me.”

“He cheated on you,” Lydia insists. “I tried to get him to confess for a while, but still. I should have told you as soon as I knew.”

Allison shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Everything worked out in the end, I guess.” She sighs, takes another sip of Coke. “The only thing I don’t understand is why I don’t feel worse about it.”

Lydia squats down in the grass, dropping to the ground to sit with her knees drawn up to her chest. She pats the patch of dirt beside her, tugs Allison’s sleeve until the other girl follows suit. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you want. You could have screamed at him - and you still can, if you want. You can cry and curl up on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. Or you can just not give a shit. They’re your feelings.”

Allison laughs, passing the bottle over to share. “But that’s just it, I _do_ care. I just don’t feel miserable.” Lydia takes a long swig, finishing off the Coke. She sets the bottle down in the grass.

“Well, what _do_ you feel then?”

Allison thinks for a minute. “Tired,” she says. “A little relieved. Mostly frustrated.”

Lydia brushes her hair out of her eyes, frowns. “Frustrated how?”

“Frustrated like, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere anymore.” She cracks her knuckles, avoiding Lydia’s stare. “I’ve been trying to come to grips with the fact that my parents aren’t...good people. Or at least, they’re the kind of people who make mistakes that I don’t know how to respond to. And now that Scott and I aren’t together...”

Lydia’s confusion morphs into understanding. She nudges Allison’s shoulder. “You’re pack,” she says firmly. “You’re pack as much as any of the rest of us.”

Allison smiles gratefully. “I know,” she says softly. “I know you guys aren’t going to just cast me out. But still. I thought Scott was ‘The One,’ you know? Like, I used to think that he and I were going to have what Derek and Stiles seem to have. That sort of bond that just grows stronger when things get rough.” She chews on her lower lip, kicks at a clump of dirt. “I think we were a little too starry-eyed. And now I’m wondering if I ever even loved him, or if I just loved the idea of him.” She takes a slow, shuddering breath. “Is that awful to say?”

“No.” Lydia shakes her head. “That’s probably true for him, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have-” She breaks off. Allison nods in grim agreement. She hesitates, curiosity warring with caution.

“Have you spoken to Jackson about this?”

Lydia groans, flips her hair. “Don’t even get me started on that boy. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants, and I have no intention of diving back into the rabbit hole he calls a brain.”

Allison laughs, clapping a hand over her mouth to smother the noise. “Poor Jackson,” she murmurs. Lydia grunts.

“Don’t feel _too_ bad for him. He’s the source of most of his problems. Definitely his own worst enemy.” Allison hums thoughtfully.

“Yeah, well. Aren’t we all?”

Back inside the house, the stifling mugginess of the boxed-in basement is becoming unbearable. Jackson rouses from restless sleep to lift himself off the couch, disentangling himself from the mess of pillows. He steps up on his tip-toes, turning the air conditioner up to full power.

Hopping down, he looks at the dark spot staining the floorboards beneath his feet. His eyes trail upward, coming to rest on Scott's prone form.

The boy is sprawled out on the chair, legs dangling over one side, one arm hanging down low to the ground. His mouth is open, nose whistling as he snores. Eyelashes fluttering, bare-chested and sweating, he’s the perfect picture of...

...of something.

The image comes unbidden: the spinal cord ripping from Mara’s back, bone fragments hurtling towards him like knives, thwarted by Scott seizing him from behind and pinning him against the wall. Shielding. 

A warm sensation starts pooling in Jackson’s gut, and with no small amount of horror, he begins to realize that it isn’t just lust anymore. Because that would be too easy. He backs up against the wall and slides to the floor, face buried in his hands.

Fuck.

 

**IX.**

The New Mexico desert is resolutely arid, even at night. 

It’s a vast and empty place, flat enough in all directions that a highway traveller can stand in the road and turn in a circle, observing the curvature of the earth. There are no city lights here; only the stars above, dancing in the heavens with their companion, the moon. The road is straight and narrow, stretching out into the distance like the corpse of a serpent given way to rigor mortis. The crossroads have come to be known as Rattlesnake Juncture, though one is more likely to stumble upon a coyote feasting on the carcass of a jackrabbit than a hissing, venomous menace. The housing developments are coming in nicely over on the other side of the canyon highway, but here - here in the desert - the only home to be found is that of one Mrs. Loretta Wainwright.

Home, meaning a 30-foot long mobile trailer parked some fifty yards off the main road, right out in the middle of nowhere. There’s no address to be found, neither on the side of the makeshift mailbox or the building itself. It’s rare that a visitor of any kind comes to call.

Tonight being one of those occasions.

Loretta stands at the kitchen counter, hand trembling slightly as she pours two cups of tea. Her cheeks are still stained with dirt from a hard day’s labor, hair tied up loosely in the back. She’s a hard woman, skin pinched tight like rough leather, wrinkled. 

“I told you,” she grumbles, calm voice betraying none of her fear. “I haven’t seen Max in over five months. He skipped out. End of story.” 

The visitor sits in the living room, perched on the edge of his seat. His posture is composed, held upright, hands folded politely in his lap. His skin looks as though it would be soft to the touch, charcoal black and callused only around the fingertips. A working man. His black boots are set aside, shoved in a corner by the door; his socked feet are placed flat against the floor.

Morgan Whitaker is the name he has given her, though she cannot guess whether the label holds any truth. He’s curious looking: well-dressed with a button down shirt and smooth pants, thick-rimmed glasses set comfortably on the bridge of his nose. His hair is buzzed short, crew cut style, and his nails are clipped to perfect edges, no splinters. Judging by his age lines, he looks to be about 50. Perhaps older, though maybe younger.

“And you haven’t spoken with your husband since, Mrs. Wainwright?” he asks. His voice is velvety smooth, warm and grandfatherly. Businesslike, but also kind.

Loretta huffs. “ _No_. He packed up in the night and was gone before I woke the next morning. No contact after that.” She comes around with the tray of cups and spoons, balancing the kettle in the center. Setting it down on the table, she squeezes into the rocking chair with a sigh. “Not to be rude, but I’ve already been over this with the others.”

Whitaker’s head tilts to the left, cocked like a confused dog. “The others?” he queries mildly. Loretta nods emphatically.

“Your employer, whoever he is, already sent some people. Couple of younger fellas with nice suits? They asked me all of these same questions you’re going over now, and I gave ‘em the same answers I’m telling you. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I see.” Whitaker takes one of the cups from the tray, brings it up to his mouth. He sniffs, inspecting, takes a quick sip. Licking his lips, he adjusts his glasses. “My concern is, as opposed to these other gentleman, I’m not certain I believe you.”

Loretta stiffens. She juts her jaw out, glares. “Excuse me?” Whitaker looks unimpressed.

“I think you are lying. I think you have been in contact with...” He trails off, removes a piece of paper from his breast pocket, squinting at the writing. “...With Max. I believe you and he have spoken since his disappearance. I believe you know where the money is.”

“I told you, I haven’t.” Loretta folds her arms across her chest. “And if you’re just going to sit there and make accusations all night, I think I’d like for you to leave. I’m trying to cooperate with you people, and you’re making it a real pain in the ass, to be honest.”

Whitaker stands, setting his cup of tea back down on the tray with the kettle. His back is held straight, head still cocked. It gives him the eerie appearance of a marionette come to life. He smiles gently. Understandingly. “If you want out of your house, I will go. Are you sure that is what you want?”

His tone is soft as ever, but there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. Something coiling, slithering, hiding in the dark, behind the smile and the kindness in his eyes. Loretta swallows thickly. “Well, I mean - I don’t. You, just. You don’t _have_ to-” She takes a breath. “I just don’t what you want me to say. I don’t have your money, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, I know you don’t have it.” He sounds casual, unsurprised. “You wouldn’t be living in a trailer in the desert if you did. Nevertheless, I know that you are withholding something from me.”

His hands are clasped together at his waits. His right forefinger is stroking up and down the back of his left hand. Stroking, stroking. The nail is digging in almost hard enough to draw blood.

The clock ticks loudly on the wall. A coyote howls outside the window.

Loretta squirms in her chair. “If...” A pause. “If I _did_ know something, will you promise not to get mad?”

Whitaker dips his head. “I will not get mad,” he says easily, honestly. Loretta rubs her forehead.

“Alright then.” She lets out a low groan, shakes her head. “Jesus. Okay, well he _did_ call. Just once, though. It was right after he ran. He told me about the money, said he was going to take it somewhere safe. Said he’d call me when he got there and bring me with him.” Her lip curls in disdain. “He never did.”

Whitaker looks satisfied. “And did he happen to mention where he was? When he called you?”

Loretta shrugs, waves him off. “I don’t-” She cuts off, brow furrowing. “Well, actually. Yeah. He was calling from some motel off the highway, headed up through California. Said he was about ten miles outside a little town called Beacon Hills. Does that help?”

“Oh, yes.” Whitaker turns away from her, reaching into his pocket. “Yes it does.”

Five minutes later, he’s stepping outside, coming down the front steps with his boots strapped tight. He peels off a pair of latex gloves and throws them into the dirt under the trailer, starts walking towards the road.

There are no cars in sight, but he’s not worried. He just holds his thumb out and heads northward. 

The thorns of the cacti glimmer in the dark, dripping with malice, silhouetted against the sky.

 

**X.**

Another listless day on the neighborhood porch. Derek is sitting out in the wooden chair wearing jeans and a white tank top. He’s sleepy and sweating, and he’s sure he looks like white trash, but he feels as close to at peace as he can remember. For once, things seem to be good.

The sound of a plate shattering in the kitchen startles him to his feet, but Isaac’s laughter puts him at ease. A few minutes later, Stiles pokes his head out through the screen door, flashes a white-toothed grin.

“Ready to eat?” he asks. Derek smiles.

“Uh huh.” 

He takes Stiles’ hand and follows him back into the house.

Across the street and down the block, a neighbor boy is playing in the grass while his grandfather waters the rose bushes. The _thwack! thwack!_ of the sprinkler resounds. The boy giggles as the hose spritzes him with a mist of water, and he claps happily, waving his toy firetruck over his head.

Under the grass, unseen to human eyes, a nest of beetles is swarming in the muck. Just feet away from the happy child, they’re feasting on the corpse of a dead mouse, tearing flesh from bone, scrambling over one another to get to the meatiest bits. They’re digging, digging, digging...


	12. load up on guns

**I.**

Dog-eared and wrinkled, the brochures are scattered across the kitchen table, turned open at the edges and thoroughly perused. The wadded-up balls of crumpled paper are piling high in the trash bin, and the pot of coffee is beginning to run low. Stiles drinks from his mug, smacking his lips and wedging his knees up against the edge of the table.

“What about UCLA?” the sheriff asks. Reading glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, he pins Stiles with a questioning stare, waves the pamphlet in his hand. “It’s close, in-state. You have great grades, and I’m sure you can find at least _one_ teacher who would write you a letter of recommendation.”

Stiles releases a discontented little huff. “Yeah, but isn’t it, like, a huge campus? I’m not sure I want to go to a big school. And I bet it’s expensive.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes. “College is expensive, period. We’re going to be strapped for cash wherever you end up going.” He pokes Stiles in the chest with the eraser of his pencil. “So make sure you stay on top of your schoolwork this year. A scholarship will do us a lot of good.”

“Ugh...” Stiles covers his face, peeking out between his fingers. “Can’t you just be an irresponsible parent for once, and let me enjoy my summer without thinking about this crap? I’m not even finished with high school yet.”

“It’s never too early to start thinking ahead.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, alright.” He snatches the pamphlet out of his father’s hands, tosses it aside. “Still, not UCLA. Do they even - I dunno. What majors do they offer?”

The sheriff leans back in his chair, cups his hands behind his neck. “I’m not sure. Film, I think. Maybe Architecture? You’d have to look into it, although it sounds like you’re not took keen on the idea.” He frowns, a thought occurring to him. “Do you even know what you want to pursue? Career-wise, I mean.”

“I haven’t given it too much thought,” Stiles admits. “Again, I’m still kinda in high-school mode.” He grabs another brochure, flipping it open. “I guess I could be a teacher? Except, actually no. Not at all, never mind. I would just grow into one of those bitter old men who snaps at kids for passing notes in class, and everybody would hate me, and I’d go prematurely grey and then you and I will both look like we’re 60 at the same time. So no teaching.”

“Alright then.” The sheriff scratches his chin. “Anything else?”

“I could be an archeologist,” Stiles suggests sarcastically. “The kind who hunts for ancient treasures in foreign lands. And fights Nazis with a bullwhip.”

“Uh huh.” His father spares a mournful glance at the near-empty coffee pot. His expression turns serious. “You’re right that you still have plenty of time to make a decision, but still, it’s curious that you don’t have any idea for what you want to do with your life. It just doesn’t seem like you.”

Stiles chews on his lip, fidgeting. “Well...” He hesitates. “I _have_ thought about, you know, being a cop. Like you.”

The sheriff’s face goes blank. Not angry, just guarded. “Oh.”

“Not that I’m totally dead-set on the idea,” Stiles adds quickly. “It’s not for sure. I just like the idea. The research aspect of it. The detective work. And schooling wouldn’t require me to go live far away from everybody.”

“I see.” The sheriff looks uncomfortable. The silence drags for a couple of minutes before he speaks again. “This isn’t...” he starts slowly. “You’re not doing this just for...”

He trails off, but his tone gives away everything in his head. “For the pack?” Stiles tries. “For Derek?” 

His father sighs. “You know I’ll support you in whatever you do, and if you want to join the police or be a detective, that’s great. But I also want to make sure you’re making these decisions for the right reasons, and not just because...Just because.”

Stiles rubs his face tiredly. He sets the pamphlet in his hand back on the table, fingers drumming on the hardtop. “I know you don’t ‘approve’ of him or whatever, but yeah, he’s important to me. I’m not saying that I won’t go to college or that I’ll turn my whole life around just for the convenience of my relationship with him. But it _will_ factor into my decisions. I won’t deny that.”

The sheriff’s expression softens. “It’s not that I disapprove, son. I just-” He breaks off, makes a frustrated sound. “I’m still warming to it, okay? The fact that he’s stuck around this long is a huge point in his favor. Something like that leads me to believe that my initial assessment of him was a bit harsh. And it seems as though he wants to make things work for the long term.” He runs his fingers through his hair, scratches. “He’s just a lot older than you. And maybe I’m wrong to dwell on that, but it’s hard to overlook. I hope you understand.”

“I do, Dad.” Stiles stands up, pushing his chair back. He walks around to stand behind his father, bends down to rest his chin on the older man’s shoulder. “I get it. I know you’re trying. That’s all I want from you.”

There’s a whooshing sound from upstairs as Isaac flushes the toilet, followed by a repeated thumping as he makes his way back down the hall to the bedroom. The door clicks shut. 

The sheriff breathes out quietly through his nose, reaches up to squeeze Stiles’ hand. “I’m very proud of you,” he says. “I mean it.”

Stiles smiles, pulls him into a hug. “You’d better be.”

 

**II.**

Most everyone arrives around 9:00, just about an hour after the last of the sunlight has faded from the purple-tinged sky. It’s a party for no reason, much like most of the gang’s gatherings nowadays.

Scott and Stiles are the last to show, and Derek opens the door to find them standing on the porch, their matching red t-shirts clashing horribly with their grey and black pants. Stiles beams at him, thrusting a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper into his chest. “Remember when ‘pack meeting’ meant ‘sit at the table and stare awkwardly at each other for two hours?’ This is better. This is what it means to behave like a person.” 

Scott hums in agreement, shuffling into the house with three boxes of pizza stacked high in his arms. “They’re still warm,” he calls over his shoulder, taking them to the kitchen. “Although I guess you have a microwave now, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Lydia and Allison crowd forward greedily, already trying to open the boxes before Scott can set them down. “Why didn’t you just have them deliver here?” Allison asks, cupping a hand under her chin as a string of hot cheese drizzles down from her lips.

“I think they’re afraid of me,” Derek grumbles. “Even after we fixed up the house, the mailman still leaves packages at the far end of the driveway.”

Stiles smirks at him. “You love it, don’t lie. You get a kick out of the thought that the whole town thinks you’re some kind of crazy recluse.”

Derek scowls, but he doesn’t deny it. He pulls Stiles aside from the group, back into the foyer by the door. “Isaac didn’t want to come?” he asks lowly. Stiles shakes his head.

“No, he did. His leg was acting up, though. I think he just wanted to rest tonight.”

The hall door opens, and Danny and Jackson exit from the basement, coming around the side to enter the kitchen. “TV reception is acting screwy again,” Danny says.

“I’ll fix it,” Scott offers, swallowing a huge bite and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He claps Stiles on the shoulder as he passes by. “Wanna help?”

“I’d like nothing better,” Stiles replies drily. “Let me eat first.”

The downstairs reception is fucked, so Derek hefts the TV up into the living room. Everyone squashes together at the long table, watching old reruns and sharing in food and drink.

Jackson sniffs the air, frowning. He leans over to his left and buries his nose in Stiles’ neck. Stiles yelps, batting him away. Derek snorts.

“What the hell, man?” Stiles wipes at his neck, smells his hand. “Is there something on me?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking _rank_.” Jackson’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Did you take a bath in sunblock or something?”

Stiles’ eyes widen, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “Yeah, well. It’s hot out, dude. I’ve got sensitive skin.”

Jackson scoffs. “Fine, but you don’t have to _drown_ yourself in that shit.” He scoots away, wincing when Derek punches him in the shoulder.

“Be nice.”

Lydia snags the remote from Danny and starts flipping through channels. “Do you have any premium cable?” she asks Derek. “Or just the regular stuff?”

“Basic cable package,” Derek replies. He smacks Scott’s hand away from the last slice of pepperoni. Scott pouts, but grudgingly relents.

Stiles stands up, wiping off his hands. “Alright. I’m going go pee, and then _you_ -” He points at Allison meaningfully, cocks an eyebrow. Allison thinks for a moment, smiles. 

“Oh, yeah! Give me a sec, I’ll go get it.”

Danny frowns, looks between the two of them. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Stiles flashes him a wide grin. “Unlike you losers, homegirl and I aren’t cursed with the inability to get drunk. So she and I and Captain Morgan are going to get better acquainted down in the basement, thank you very much.”

“That didn’t sound dirty at all,” Lydia mutters. “Also, you just said ‘homegirl’ with no irony whatsoever, which is just...”

Jackson snorts. “Yeah. And _we’re_ the losers. Pot, meet kettle.”

Stiles ignores them, scurrying off down the hall and working at his belt. Allison stands up and moves around the table, pats Danny on the back as he scoots his chair forward for her. “Be back in a minute,” she says cheerfully, fishing out her car keys as she steps out onto the porch.

Derek groans. “I think I’m beginning to fully appreciate what a terrible influence I am...”

Scott darts a hand across the table and steals the remaining half of the pepperoni slice from Derek’s plate. “Took you long enough,” he says, stuffing his mouth full.

 

**III.**

Things don’t wind down until long past midnight. Derek finds Allison and Stiles passed out on the downstairs couch and reeking of booze, untangles Stiles from Allison’s one-armed embrace and carries him up the bedroom. Danny laughs at the sight and waves a silent goodbye, grabbing the overstuffed trash bag to drop off in the dumpster on his way out. Lydia is snoring in front of the muted TV, mouth hanging open as she drools on the table, hair a mess. 

Out on the front porch, Jackson sits with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, smoke curling up in thin wisps, ash bunching up around the glowing end. Danny frowns at him, heaves the trash bag into the receptacle.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Jackson flicks the stick, blowing at the sparks that flutter back to land on his upper sleeves. He shrugs carelessly. “Since sometimes. It’s not a regular thing.” Danny nods.

“Good. It’s pretty gross, man.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Got it, _Mom_.”

Danny shakes his head, half-fond and half-exasperated, tosses a silly little salute as he backs off down the driveway to his car. The headlights kick on a minute later, followed by the fading sound of the engine rumbling into the distance.

The front door swings open and Scott steps out, tugging one arm behind his back in a sleepy stretch. He pauses, spotting Jackson. “Oh. Hey.”

Jackson nods. “Hey.” Scott shifts to lean against the frame, letting the door snap shut. He folds his arms, scratches at his cheek. Jackson watches. His mouth twists into the slightest of smirks. “Nice fuzz, by the way,” he mocks, gesturing towards his own face. “Don’t think I mentioned it before.”

Scott’s hand pauses, fingers spreading to self-consciously cover his facial hair. He looks embarrassed for a moment, then just shrugs it off. “Thanks, I guess.” He looks out at the woods, resolutely silent.

The crickets are chirping, and the wheezing noise of Lydia’s snoring is audible even from out here. Everything else seems still.

Ash curling up around his fingers, Jackson tosses the cigarette butt onto the floorboards, stomps it out with his shoe. He blows the remaining smoke out through his nose, licks his lips to rid himself of the lingering taste.

“So what, we can’t talk anymore?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Scott startles, turns to him with an incredulous expression.

“We didn’t really talk much before,” he says truthfully. “You can’t pretend that we were every really friends. You sort of _hated_ me, remember?”

Jackson winces. “Yeah, I remember.” He glares at the ground under his feet, wishing it would just open up and swallow him whole. “But I don’t. Now. Hate you, I mean. I don’t.”

Scott blinks at him. His mouth twitches at the edges, like he’s baffled and amused at the same time. “Well, good.”

A loud, dull clunking sound catches their attention, and they turn to glance back at the closed door, alert. A minute or so later, Lydia comes out with her purse in hand, nursing a quickly fading cut above her eye. “Fell out of my chair,” she mumbles tiredly. She pats Scott on the shoulder, staggers over to Jackson and presses a kiss against the top of his head. Pulling back, she makes a face, smacks her lips. “New shampoo?” she asks. Jackson nods. “Yeah, I’d go with something else.” 

Still rubbing her eye, she makes her way out into the darkness, stumbling around the side to her parked car. As she rounds the corner, she glances back and flashes Jackson a knowing smile, but she’s at least tactful enough to avoid making a comment.

The car speeds around the bend, and Lydia waves from the window as she pulls out onto the road. Scott sighs as the red glow of the taillights vanishes behind the trees.

“I know that we should talk about...things,” he says after a slight hesitation. “It wasn’t fair, the way I handled it.”

Jackson’s jaw clenches. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead, staring into the trees. Absently, he wishes he had another cigarette.

“I got scared,” Scott continues, oblivious or indifferent to Jackson’s stoic silence. “I just...” He trails off, makes a frustrated noise. Jackson chances a glance at him, sees the boy’s face contorted in doubt and confusion. “Look, I don’t what this is. I lost control that night. I got scared because I thought maybe I _forced_ you, and then I was scared because I cheated on my girlfriend for no reason at all, and I-” He breaks off, choked. He swallows thickly, looks down at his shoes and goes quiet.

The darker part of Jackson - the vindictive, sadistic side - wants to let Scott stew for a while, but instead, he finds his mouth moving, saying, “You didn’t. Force me.” Then, as an afterthought, “I would have thought that was obvious enough.” He forces a sneer. “Hope you haven’t been beating yourself up about that all this time.”

Scott stares at him, disbelieving. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “You...” He lets out a shaky laugh, smiles bitterly. “It’s shit like this, dude. You drive my wolf _crazy_ , and I don’t understand it.” He rubs his forehead, lets his eyes fall closed. “It’s like, Allison made me calm, made me focused. And you just drive me crazy. And it’s scary because I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t know what _it_ is.”

Jackson’s heart is pounding in his chest, and he can’t for the life of him get it to slow down. It’s awful, and he knows Scott can hear it. But he can’t make it stop. “Is it because I’m a guy?” he asks, looking away. He has to stare at the trees because he really, really doesn’t want to see what Scott’s face looks like right now. “I mean, is that what’s got you freaked out?”

“What? No.” Scott sounds bewildered by the question, legitimately confused. As though the thought had never occurred to him before. “I’ve never been afraid of that.” His shoulders slant into a weird half-shrug. “I mean, I’ve never really bothered to explore that side of myself - you know, doing stuff with guys. It was never a big part of me, like it is with Stiles. And then when Allison came along, I sort of thought she was ‘The One,’ and so I didn’t think about it at all after that.” He coughs, shakes his head distractedly. “But no. I’ve never cared about that. I was scared because it was _you_.”

“Because it was me,” Jackson repeats, toneless. His foot is bouncing up and down, knee shaking slightly. “Alright, so you’re attracted to me then? Is that what you’re saying?” He tries to make it a joke, condescending, but it comes out more hopeful than anything else.

Still, Scott seems to hear the mocking tone loudest, and he winces, eyes flashing angrily. “You _know_ you’re attractive, jackass. You don’t need my validation.” He turns away, glaring off into space. “I could ask you the same question about me, but I’m not completely insecure. And I already know the answer.”

Jackson tenses up, claws threatening to come out. He wants to slash deep gouges in the woodwork of the porch’s support beams. “For wanting to talk about things, you’re doing a pretty shit job of it.”

Scott opens his mouth to retort, but he falters at the last moment, light fading from his eyes. He sighs, expression turning sad. Jerking forward, he pushes off the wall and crowds into Jackson’s space, pulling him to his feet. Jackson startles, going rigid, and he stands still as Scott pulls him into a tight, awkward hug. “Why are you so bad at life?” Scott mumbles against the fabric of his shirt.

His touch is like magic: all of the tension drains from Jackson’s body, all the fight evaporating in a fog of exhaustion. “You’re not any better,” he protests quietly. Slowly, uncomfortably, he allows himself to relax into the embrace, resting his chin on Scott’s shoulder. Scott chuckles tiredly.

“I’m a little bit better at it,” he teases.

Jackson snorts. “Keep telling yourself that.” The sound of Scott’s breathing echoes in his ears, and the warmth of the boy’s body is so _close_ to his own. He feels a shudder run up his spine, hands trembling. Scott pulls away, resting his hands on Jackson’s biceps and holding him at arm’s length.

“Are you okay?” he asks. And his eyes - his fucking eyes - are so wide and sincere and concerned. 

Jackson’s eyes flicker down, zero in on Scott’s mouth. He swallows. “Why are you so fucking _good_?” he murmurs - and he’s promptly terrified by his own words, by what letting that thought out into the open reveals about himself.

Scott’s eyes widen, if that’s even possible, and his mouth drops in surprise. “Jackson?” he asks, quiet, gentle.

It’s too much. Jackson jerks away from Scott’s touch, hurries down the porch and across the driveway to his car. He can hear his name being called, but he pays no attention. The only thing to do right now is get as far away as he can, to go home and sleep and forget.

And if his wolf objects to that plan of action, Jackson doesn’t give a fuck.

 

**IV.**

It’s nearly 11:00 in the morning before Stiles finally rouses from booze-soaked sleep, pulling a grossed out face at the taste in his mouth before twisting in the sheets to roll over and press a kiss against Derek’s cheek. “Get up.”

Derek groans, batting him away. “Mmph...”

Stiles pokes him in the ribs, grins at the werwolf’s responding growl. “Come on. It’s practically noon, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek mumbles. He rolls over on his back, throwing a lazy arm over his eyes. “And shut up. I don’t have work until 2:00. Let me sleep.”

Stiles kisses him again, pulls away and tosses a pillow at his head. “I’m going downstairs to make coffee. You should come, too.”

He drags himself down the steps in boxers and a t-shirt, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and groaning at the onset of a killer headache. Shuffling his feet, he comes around the corner and finds Scott seated in a stool at the kitchen counter. Allison is hunched over the table, grumbling to herself and sipping from a green mug.

Scott glances over his shoulder, hearing Stiles’ footsteps. He nods in greeting. “Hey.”

Stiles flaps his hand loosely. “Hey.” He yawns, threads his fingers through his hair. “Please tell me I’m not the only one with a hangover.”

Allison chuckles humorlessly, wincing and rubbing her temples. “Definitely not. I think I’m just going to go curl up in the bathtub and die.”

“I’ve already made coffee,” Scott says, waving at the pot by the stove. Stiles breathes out a contented sigh.

“You’re a lifesaver, buddy.” He pours himself a cup, hopping up to sit on the free stool next to Scott’s.

Allison sets her mug down slowly, face going blank. She clutches her stomach, grimaces. “Be right back,” she announces, hurrying around the corner. The boys hear the bathroom door slam shut, followed by a hacking cough and retching noise.

Stiles shakes his head. “We drank too much,” he says unnecessarily. Scott smiles.

“I noticed.”

A door slams upstairs, and they hear the shower kicking to life as Derek fumbles around in the bathroom. Stiles takes a sip from his cup, peers over the rim at the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. He leans over, nudging his friend’s shoulder with his own.

“What’s up?” he asks. “You look like you had a shitty night.”

Scott’s mouth draws into a thin line. He rolls his left foot in a circle, popping his ankle. “I think I’m in way over my head.”

Stiles frowns. He opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by Derek calling from upstairs.

“Where did you leave the shampoo? Stiles?”

“I finished it!” Stiles yells. “There’s a new bottle under the sink, bottom left drawer.” He pauses, waiting for the door to click shut before relaxing. He shakes his head. “Can you believe we ever scared of him?”

“He’s still scary when he wants to be,” Scott says, although he looks like he’s on the verge of laughing. “You’ve just got him whipped, that’s all. He’s like an indoor cat now.”

Stiles hums in agreement. “Indoor wolf. Hmmm.” He drains the rest of his cup. “That should be a show. Coming this fall on NBC: Indoor Wolf! The life and times of a domesticated lycanthrope.”

Scott starts coughing, face turning red as he tries to catch his breath. Stiles claps him on the back.

The toilet flushes down the hall, and Allison wanders slowly back into the kitchen, wiping her mouth. “I’m going to go back down to the basement,” she says. “Crash on the couch for a few hours. Wake me up before you head out, Stiles, please.”

Stiles tries to high-five her, misses. “You got it.” 

Allison yawns, turning around to leave. “I’m never drinking that much again...”

“That’s what they always say,” Stiles calls after her. “That’s how it _begins_.” As soon as she’s gone, he turns back to Scott, amusement morphing into concern. “So, back to what you were saying. What’s going on?”

Scott rubs his thumb on the countertop, trying to wipe away a smudge. He’s resolutely focused on avoiding Stiles’ gaze. “I think Jackson might like me,” he says quietly. “Like, _like_ me. Maybe more than like.”

Stiles stares at him. He makes a face like he’s not sure whether to laugh or not. “Umm. Not that I’m saying you’re _wrong_ , but what in the holy fuck gave you that idea? Jackson is sort of...straight. Like, _really_ heterosexual.” Scott groans, drops his forehead to the counter.

“We had sex,” he murmurs. “A while back. And I thought it was just some nutty pack thing, or a wolf thing, but then I thought maybe not. And I thought he just wanted a backseat tryst, just for the hell of it. Maybe to get between me and Allison. But now I think he actually-” He groans. “I don’t even know. I don’t know what this is.”

And now Stiles is gaping at him, eyes comically wide. He looks scandalized, spluttering for a minute before he finally manages to talk. “Dude! Best friend here! How did I miss all of this happening? _When_ did this happen? Also, since when are you gay? I’ve offered to make out with you, like, fifteen times!”

Scott just shakes his head, not really listening. “What am I supposed to do here?” he asks. 

Stiles’ eyes narrow. He jabs an accusing finger in Scott’s chest. “Wait. Is this why you and Allison broke up?” Scott sucks on the inside of his cheek, keeps shaking his head.

“No. Sort of. Not really, though.” He lifts his head, turns puppy-dog eyes on Stiles, shoulders slumped. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I could really use some advice right now.”

Stiles’ expression softens. He thinks for a minute, contemplating, scratching under his chin. “Well, what do you want?” he asks eventually. “What would you like to happen?”

Scott turns away, hiding his face.

 

**V.**

The books are piled high on the table, scattered out and turned open, set apart by type. The room is musty, permeated by the smell of alcohol, and the sunlight shining through the cracks in the blinds provides the only source of illumination.

Victoria enters with a basket of laundry, pauses at the sight of her husband hunched over the desk, straining his eyes to read in the dark.

“Still at it, I see,” she says. He grunts affirmatively, doesn’t bother to look up.

“I think I’ve found something,” he says. “A possibility, at least.”

Victoria flips on the light switch and crowds in behind him, peeking over his shoulder at the open book. It’s an older text from one of their less reliable sources. The page displays a charcoal drawing of a man in silhouette, shaded so that his skeletal system is showing. Wrapped around his spine, a formless and snakelike creature is wrapped around the vertebrae, slinking all the way up from the tailbone to the man’s neck.

“A valeïróksha,” Victoria reads, squinting at the caption. She looks at Chris skeptically. “Never heard of it.”

“They live underground,” he says, tapping the book. “Deep in the woods, in areas where the earth is rotted out and the trees won’t grow.” He flips back to an earlier page. “They’re hive-minded spirits without any will of their own. They generally don’t stray out from the nest unless threatened, unless someone enters their territory.” He glances up, searches Victoria’s face for a response. 

“Alright,” she says noncommittally. Chris looks back to the book, continues.

“That sounds pretty much in accordance with what the girl told us,” he says. “If this _is_ what we’re dealing with, I think I can track it. Just a little more research, and-”

“Chris...” Victoria’s face is stone cold, icy. Her jaw clenches, heels clicking as she walks away, dropping the basket on the ground by the door.

She goes into the kitchen and starts cleaning dishes, more for a distraction than anything else. The sound of running water and soap bubbling up in the sink helps her ignore the thunderous silence that seems to occupy the house these days. She stands at the counter, scrubbing away, gazing out the window at the backyard.

The target practice haystacks are still set up by the bushes, though they’re slanted to the side and dilapidated in appearance  from lack of use. Allison doesn’t spend much time here anymore; doesn’t even sleep in her own bed if she can help it.

Several minutes pass before Victoria hears Chris coming down the stairs, footsteps slowing as he comes to a halt behind her. She ignores him, reaching for the washcloth to hand dry.

“What is it?” Chris asks stiffly. He sounds put upon, like he’d rather be anywhere in the world than in this room, having this conversation. 

Victoria keeps drying. “It’s nothing.” She sets a plastic plate down on the counter with a loud, satisfying crack. “I’m just not sure what you’re doing, that’s all.”

Chris breathes out through his nose, annoyed. “Oh?” Victoria shrugs.

“Considering the way you dealt with...” She trails off, not daring to say _your father_ , despite the obviousness of her line of thought. “Considering _that_ , I’ve been under the impression that you wanted to distance yourself from this way of life. A decision that I supported despite my concerns.” She reaches for a mug, starts wiping inside with the cloth. “But now, it seems as though you’re going out of your way to look for trouble.”

“Don’t mischaracterize my actions,” Chris interjects with deadly calm. “I did what I did to protect our daughter, but I have never once pretended that I wanted anything different for myself, or for you. We’re hunters. This is what we do.” He draws himself up to full height, towering. “At least, it’s what I do.”

Victoria brings her thumb up to the corner of her mouth, wiping away a lipstick smudge. “Your actions, right or not, have made it unsafe for us to associate with the members of our clan. We’re isolated. Cut off. For better or worse, it’s time to move on to something else.” She turns around, finally, facing him directly. “If you’re correct about this creature, it doesn’t sound like it’s a problem for us. Going after it is foolish.”

Chris glares. “I’m going to speak candidly,” he warns, dangerously soft. “I’ve just about had it with your need to control. A marriage is a partnership. I’m not your dog.”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re a martyr,” she snaps in return, throwing the dishrag at him. She places her hands on her hips, fingernails digging into the hem of her shirt. “You’ve always gone ahead and done whatever it is you’ve wanted to do, regardless of my input. It’s just happenstance that we used to agree so much of the time. So don’t pretend like you’re a victim, living under my tyrannical rule.”

“Are you finished?” Chris asks coldly. Victoria scoffs.

“With what? My speech. Sure, I’m finished. You want a go?”

Chris shakes his head. “No, our job. What we do. Are you finished?”

Victoria heaves out a long, harsh sigh, drags her fingers through her cropped hair. “My job is, and always has been, keeping this family safe. And if that means giving up hunting, then-”

“But our family isn’t safe,” Chris interrupts. He doesn’t look angry anymore. Just weary, drained. “It’s too late for that, can’t you see? Allison is going to leave us, Victoria. You must know that by now. As soon as she gets the chance, she’s going to leave us and move in with _them_.”

Victoria’s breathing hitches. Her hands drop slowly, clenching into fists, shaking. “I won’t let her,” she says, barely more than a whisper.

“You won’t be able to stop her. Neither will I.” Chris backs away, leans against the refrigerator. “We lost our family.” His lips twitch upward in a harsh smile, bitter and self-loathing. “We fucked it up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victoria says, though she doesn’t seem convinced by her own words. “She just needs time, that’s all.”

Chris shakes his head adamantly. “You wanted to know why I’m doing this?” he asks softly. “Why I have to go on this hunt?” He shrugs, backing out of the kitchen. “It’s all I have left. What else am I going to do?”

His footsteps fade on the stairs as he returns to his books, leaving his wife standing in the kitchen with tears prickling at her eyes.

 

**VI.**

It’s dark outside, and the late night movie on the old classics channel is _Apocalypse Now_. Isaac is squashed into the armchair off to the side, and Derek and Stiles are curled up together on the couch. The sheriff is absent, working yet another late shift.

Isaac scoops a handful of homemade popcorn into his mouth, chewing quietly over the bowl. “Did you guys have to read the book for school?” he asks, waving at the screen.

Stiles shakes his head as best he can with Derek’s arm wrapped tightly around him. “We read _The Great Gatsby_ last semester. I think we get to do _On the Road_ next year.”

Derek hums sleepily, watching the screen as Martin Sheen flips through old photographs of Marlon Brando as a young Colonel Kurtz. “I didn’t stick through high school long enough to get to the good stuff. I had catch up with _Gatsby_ years later.”

“Wait.” Stiles twists around, craning his neck to stare into Derek’s eyes. “You read?”

Isaac laughs, and Derek’s lips curl back in annoyance. “When are you going to figure out that I’m not actually a Neanderthal?”

“As soon as you behaving like a real boy stops being weird,” Stiles replies, patting his knee. He yelps when Derek nips threateningly at his earlobe. “Hey, careful! We talked about this. If you turn me by _accident_ , I am going to be so pissed. And my dad will probably shoot you in the face. You’ll fly into a fit of rage and kill him, and I’ll die of a broken heart and Isaac here will have to avenge our deaths.” He turns to look at Isaac. “You will, won’t you?”

“I swear to it,” Isaac says, so solemn that even Derek cracks a smile.

The movie continues to play without commercial breaks as the night wears on. Isaac falls asleep after a while, slumped over in his chair with his head lolling to the side. He’s snoring softly, hand clutched loosely around the head of his cane. Stiles gazes mournfully at the empty bowl of popcorn. He blinks rapidly, trying to stay awake as he stares at the screen.

“They’re really going to town on the synthesizer,” he remarks, indicating the soundtrack. “It’s like they’re saying, ‘Look out, world. Here comes shitty 80s music.’ Am I right?”

Derek snorts. “I like it.”

“Of course you do. Weirdo.”

Derek shrugs, unapologetic. “I like all kinds of music. I’m not picky.”

“You should be a _little_ picky. I might run screaming for the hills if I find any Toto records in your bedroom. Or Scorpions.”

“Duly noted,” Derek says.

Stiles smiles, turning his face to rest against Derek’s chest, closing his eyes. “Never thought I’d be talking with you about this,” he yawns. “It still feels really strange.”

“Good strange?” Derek asks, can’t stop himself. “Or...?”

Stiles hums contentedly, yawns again. “Good strange. Don’t be insecure. We’ve already got Jackson for that.”

Derek chuckles, threading his fingers through the boy’s hair as they both fall asleep.

It’s well past three in the morning before the sheriff arrives home, turning the key slowly in the lock and removing his shoes on the porch to avoid making too much noise. He finds everyone passed out in the living room, cautiously pulling the remote out of Isaac’s hand to turn the TV off. He smiles, watching them all for a moment before retiring to his own room.

Outside the kitchen window, a raven touches down and lands on the sill. Gazing at its reflection, it starts tapping away at the glass, smashing its beak repeatedly against the hard surface. A few minutes later, it gives up and flies away, but not without leaving a tiny spiderweb crack in the windowpane.

 

**VII.**

At the start of the following week, the house of cards finally comes crashing to the ground.

It’s a regular Monday at the outset, nothing distinctively unsettling to indicate trouble. The copy shop is busy; populated by students from the nearby community college printing off projects and stolen tests, and by local businessmen scouring the shelves for various supplies. 

Jackson is working register, distracted and forcing polite smiles at the customers in line as he rings up the items. He’s lost in his thoughts. Down the nearest aisle, a couple of girls in matching hoodies are picking out color-coordinated binders, looking at the selection of planners and staplers on display. Jackson watches, unfocused.

He’s shaken free from the listless daydreams by a knocking on the front office window. His boss is peering through the blinds, waving him over.

Finishing up with an order, he closes out the register and steps into the office. “Yeah?”

His boss gestures to a man sitting in the rolling chair at the head of her desk. “Jackson, this is Mr. Whitaker from the IRS. He’d like a couple of minutes of your time.”

Whitaker smiles politely at her, nods. “Thank you, Sheila, I appreciate the use of your office. We’ll only be a minute.” The door closes as she leaves, and the man’s eyes snap to Jackson’s, smile frozen in place. “Hello, Mr. Whittemore. It’s good to meet you.”

Jackson stands awkwardly by the door, glances around pointlessly, frowning. “Uh. Hi.” He steps forward to shake the man’s hand, sits down in the chair across from him. “What’s this about?”

“I’ve just come from speaking with your father,” Whitaker replies, voice rich and deep. “We just had a pleasant conversation about your company’s finances.”

Jackson feels his heart skip a beat. He keeps his expression neutral, as best he can. “Oh. Okay.” He clasps his hands together, leans back in the chair. He focuses in, listens to the man’s heartbeat; it’s steady, perfectly controlled, never changing in tempo.

“There’s no need for concern.” Whitaker pulls a folder out of the briefcase sitting on the floor by his chair. “I’d just like to go over a few things with you.”

Jackson licks his lips. He feels his palms start to sweat, tries to wipe them discreetly on the front of his pants. “With me?” He shrugs, hoping it comes across casually. “I’m not sure what I can tell you about...whatever you want to know. It’s my dad’s business.”

“Yes.” Whitaker is still smiling, still gently, politely - but there’s a razor sharp edge to it now, just beneath the surface. Sharklike, Jackson thinks. “Yes, a nice little family business, I’m well aware. Your father seemed so genuinely enthusiastic about the whole affair. Said owning his own store had been a dream of his for years.” He flips through the folder with his thumb, scanning the pages. He glances up at Jackson, eyes piercing over the rims of his glasses. “Although he said that it never would have come to fruition without your support.”

“He said that?” Jackson tries for a surprised tone, certain he’s failing spectacularly. “I’m not sure why he would.”

“Oh, yes. He said you were the one who encouraged him to invest. That you put him in contact with a Mr...” - he pauses, turns back a page or two - “...Derek Hale. The silent partner?”

Jackson swallows thickly. He’s never had a good poker face. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Yeah, Derek’s a friend of mine, and I knew he had a lot of cash. From inheritance, or whatever. And I figured he’d like the opportunity to invest his money, too. So, it seemed like a good fit.”

“Of course.” Whitaker’s smile has an amused tilt to it now, a predatory angle. He smooths out his tie, shoes squeaking on the floor as he adjusts his stance. “Your business-”

“My father’s business,” Jackson interrupts firmly. Whitaker dips his head in concession.

“Your father’s business sprung up rather quickly, if I may be so bold as to say. Most family owned shops tend to struggle for the first few months, or the first year. Especially in small towns.” He cocks his head to this side. “But you don’t appear to have had much trouble. Your records...” He lets his tongue roll on the ‘s’, eyes flickering down to examine the papers in his lap. “Your records show that you’ve enjoyed a steady stream of income from the very beginning. Very fortunate for you.”

Jackson allows himself to scowl. “Sir, if you’re implying something, you could just be direct.” He gestures at the man’s folder. “You have the records. We have receipts going back for months. Tax returns, too. I can pull those up for you if you want.”

Whitaker’s smile is gone, replaced with a frightening emptiness. He stands slowly. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I have what I need.” He extends a hand, glasses glinting in the fluorescent lighting. “That will be all. Thank you for your time.”

The man’s hand is like ice, freezing cold against Jackson’s skin. He forces himself not to shiver, not to breathe a sigh of relief when the contact is finally broken. He stands rigid in the center of the room, letting out a shaky breath as soon as Whitaker closes the door behind him. He sinks back into the chair, hands trembling in his lap.

“Shit...” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit...”

 

**VIII.**

The rolling ball slides across the slicked down surface of the lane, cracking into the pins and knocking them askew. They all fall down. Up top on the scoreboard, the cheaply cell-shaded 3D graphics flash _Strike!_ in bold lettering.

Stiles whoops, pumping a fist in the air. He wheels around with a shit-eating grin. “Suck on that!” he shouts at the girls. “Jackson might be king of lacrosse, but no one beats me at bowling.”

Derek swivels absently in his chair, smirking at Lydia’s indignant squawk. Allison narrows her eyes, points at Stiles accusingly. “Bowling isn’t a sport! It’s a game.”

“It involves balls!” Stiles protests. He flops down in the chair beside Derek, leaning over to steal a sip of his drink. He slurps on the straw, scowling right back at Allison. “If it involves balls, it’s totally a sport.”

Lydia and Derek exchange pointed glances. “I could make a joke right now,” Lydia says carefully, “but I’ll refrain for Derek’s sake.” The screen above flashes her name, and she stands to grab the pink ball, getting into position at the head of the lane. 

“What, so you consider _pinball_ a sport?” Allison asks Stiles, refusing to drop the subject. “Hacky sack?”

“Hacky sack is a _sack_ , Allison,” Stiles explains patiently. “Sacks and balls are totally different things.”

Derek groans, burying his face in his hands. Lydia doubles over laughing, totally throwing off her aim and sending the bowling ball spinning into the gutter.

The game finishes with Derek and Stiles coming in the lead, with the girls far behind.

Allison looks livid, glaring as Stiles forces Derek to engage in an exaggerated high five. “Again,” she says dangerously. “And we’re switching up teams this time. Lydia was holding me back.”

“Hey!” Lydia punches her in the arm, but she’s laughing, so the effect is somewhat diminished.

“Come on.” Allison is already typing their names into the machine again. “Derek, you’re with me. One more game.”

Derek shrugs in surrender. “Fine. I’m going to go wash up first.”

He heads up to the counter and shells out a few bucks for the new game, steps down and walks down the row to the bathrooms. The alley is pretty much empty at this time of day; no one in sight apart from an elderly couple sitting at the bar and a team of middle-aged men gathered at the third lane, all chattering amongst themselves.

Inside the men’s room - surprisingly clean, he finds - he walks to the end stall and sits down. 

One of the faucets hasn’t been turned off all the way, and he can hear the steady dripping as he pulls out his cell phone to check for messages. Two voicemails, he sees. He lifts the phone to his ear.

The first is Scott: _Hey, Derek. It’s Scott. Obviously. Uh...yeah. If you’re with Stiles, which you probably are, tell him to answer his phone. I’ve been trying to call him. So...okay. That’s it. Oh! Unless you two are, like...ugh. Never mind. Thanks._

The dial tone sounds. Derek rolls his eyes. He flushes to toilet, steps out to wash his hands. Tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder, he clicks to the next message.

Jackson’s voice starts up immediately, sounding frantic: _Derek, they’re here. They’ve found us. The...uh, fuck. You know. You know what I mean. I don't know how, but they found us. A guy came into the store, and he totally knows, and he has your records too. So he knows where you live and your license plate number, and you need to fucking call me as soon as soon as you get this message. I’m serious. Just, like, look out. Okay? Call me back. Fuck..._

Derek stands frozen, eyes wide with his hands held stiffly under the running water. He snaps the phone shut, opens it again. He turns off the water and starts drying his hands, pressing Jackson’s number on speed dial.

He gets the answering machine.

“Jackson,” he growls. “What the fuck? I got your message, call me back when you can.” He closes the phone and pockets it, starts heading for the door. He stops dead.

The door the bathroom is locked from the inside. Derek’s eyes narrow. He scans the row of stalls, listening for the sound of another heartbeat. He can’t pick anything up over the sound of the dripping faucet. The old speaker box cranks out an old Springsteen tune, playing merrily at a low volume:

_Well, Billy slammed on his coaster brakes_

_And said, "Anybody wanna go on up to Greasy Lake?_

_It's about a mile down on the dark side of Route 88_

_I got a bottle of rosé, so let's try it...”_

Slowly, cautiously, Derek moves back to the sink and turns it off. And then he hears it: _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

All of the stalls are open, or at least cracked, except for the one closest to the door. Derek swallows. “Hello?” he says lowly, voice gruff. No answer.

He squats down, knees almost touching the grouted tile, peering from a distance to look underneath the stall. No shoes.

But his ears don’t lie. He can hear it still, steady and calm: _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Derek lets his claws slide out. They shine in the dull glow of the overhead lights. He steps forward, right up to the door of the stall. “Hello?” he murmurs.

The stall’s lock clicks unexpectedly, door swinging outward. A man is crouched on top of the closed lid of the toilet bowl, dressed in a black business suit and tie. He meets Derek’s gaze levelly, unblinking. It’s such a bizarre sight, Derek doesn’t think to react before the man makes his move.

Derek feels the press of cool metal against his chest, and he looks down to see a long, steel silencer attached to the barrel of a sleek gun, caught in the clutches of a latex-gloved hand. The shot rings out - muted - and it slams into his body, punching through the sternum and slicing out through his back, spraying dark blood all over the walls.

It’s agony, and Derek drops like a stone, gasping for air, fluids dribbling out of his mouth in thick streams. More out of instinct than any conscious attempt at retaliation, his claw swipes up and knocks the gun out of the man’s hand. Jerking away, he scrambles against the wall, cringing at the sensation of his own blood dripping down onto his neck from the tiles above.

The assassin looks disturbingly unfazed by this development, simply raising an eyebrow and cocking his head, eyes focused on Derek’s claws, glancing up when Derek bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl. “Interesting,” he says lightly. And then he’s stepping away, moving to the door and unlocking it, not bothering to go for his gun.

Derek tries to stand, stumbles. His eyes screw shut in pain, tears leaking from behind his eyelids as his muscle and tissue slowly repair themselves, bone cracking back into place. He’s writhing, gritting his teeth, trying to get a handle on himself. He lets out a quiet whimper, and he hears the faint noise of Lydia’s heart skipping a beat. She’s recognized the sound of her Alpha in danger.

There’s a stampede of feet drawing nearer, and then the door’s flung open, Stiles crouching down beside him with wide eyes, Allison and Lydia standing in the archway with matching expressions of shock.

“No, no, no!” Stiles is pressing his hands against the wound, shaking, trying to get Derek to look at him. “Derek?! Oh my God...oh, fuck. Are you dying?! Derek?!”

“No,” Derek growls, sees Allison relax slightly, apparently relived that he can at least talk. “No, I just need to heal.”

Stiles slowly calms down, nodding fervently as he watches the hole in Derek’s chest begin to seal up. “D-do I-” he starts, voice wavering. “Do I need to call the pack? Is it hunters? Are we in danger?”

Derek shakes his head, groaning at a fresh stab of pain. “No, don’t. Just...” He tries to pull himself upright, gives up and lies down flat on his back. “No, it’s not hunters. It’s not a werewolf thing at all.”

Everyone stares at him. Lydia glances over her shoulder, leans close to Allison. “Manager’s getting curious,” she murmurs. “I’ll go keep him out of the way until we can clean this up.” 

She leaves, and Stiles leans in close to Derek’s face, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Derek...” He shakes his head, bemused. “What is this about?”

Derek hesitates. He chokes out a strangled little laugh. “We need to talk,” he admits.

 

**IX.**

“What in the world are you talking about?” Mr. Whittemore places his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he follows his son up the stairs. “What do you mean, ‘we need to leave?’ Look - Hey! Look at me, and stop doing whatever you’re doing. Talk to me!”

Jackson empties the contents of his backpack onto the floor, scrambling around to open his dresser drawer. “I told you, I can’t explain right now,” he says, grabbing clothes in bunches and stuffing them into the outer pouch. “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise, but right now, we need to _go_. You need to get packed and wait for Mom to get home, and then you take her and get the fuck out of here. I’ll meet up with you as soon as it’s safe.”

“As soon as it’s-” His father stares, blinking. Then his face twists into outrage, grabbing Jackson by the shoulders and hoisting him to his feet. “Son, you’re starting to scare me. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you on drugs? Is that what this is about?” He points a finger in Jackson’s face. “Is that Derek boy involved? I gave you the benefit of the doubt when you said he could be trusted with the business, but I won’t pretend I’m not aware of his... _sordid past_ , so to speak. And-”

“Dad!” Jackson smacks his hands away, glaring. “For once, just trust me. You really, really need to trust me this time.” He takes a slow, shuddering breath, anger draining from his face. “I made bad decision,” he says hoarsely. “It has nothing to do with drugs, okay? But it was a bad decision, and the consequences are finally coming around to bite me in the ass. And I need for you to not be around when they get here because I’ll never be able to live with myself if you or Mom get hurt.”

He steps away to the closet, starts rummaging around in the back. Mr. Whittemore watches silently, his face slowly turning pale. “Jackson...” he murmurs. He makes a move as though to step closer, then stops, thinking better of it. “Jackson, just tell me. I’m a lawyer, I can help you. Whatever trouble you’re in, I still love you and I want to help you. Just tell me what-”

His voice dies in his throat as Jackson pulls away from the closet with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Jackson stuffs it into the backpack, reaches back into the closet to  pull out a box of shells. He tosses those in the pack as well. Zipping it up, he looks up at his father. “Dad, I’m sorry for fucking things up. I’m sorry for-” He blinks rapidly and turns away, wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry for being _me_. But you need to do this. For yourself, if nothing else. Just get out of town for a few days. You’ll know when it’s over, one way or another.”

Mr. Whittemore’s mouth drops open. “One way or another?” he repeats, shocked. “Are you saying-”

Jackson shifts without warning, eyes flashing and fangs coming out full force. “Just do what I say!” he growls. His father blanches, stumbling away and bumping into the wall.

“Jackson?” he whispers, confused and afraid. Jackson shifts to normal, face burning with shame. He looks down at the floor.

“I love you, Dad,” he says quietly. “Mom, too. Even if I never bother to tell you guys.” And then he’s slinging the backpack over his shoulders and sliding the window open, jumping out and falling to the ground.

His father cries out, running to look outside, watches as the boy runs across the road and disappears behind the neighbors house, reappearing briefly as he cuts across the yard and then vanishes again into the trees.

 

**X.**

It’s with a low exhale that Derek finishes his story, wincing as he rubs his still-sore chest, spread out on the couch at the Stilinski house with thick rolls of gauze wrapped tightly around his wounds. The healing process won’t take much longer now, but it’s still a pain in the ass.

Lydia and Allison are staring at him in disbelief, slack-jawed. Stiles is looking at the floor, expression blank. Somehow, Derek finds that more painful than the girls’ blatant disappointment.

“Jackson I can understand,” Allison says, trying her best not to sound judgmental. “I can see that. But, I mean, Derek. How could you not know that this was a terrible idea?”

“I did know,” Derek snarls. Allison flinches, and he bites his lip. “I _did_ know,” he repeats gently. “I told him so, over and over.” He tries to shrug without pulling his bandages apart. “But our pack was broken. No one trusted each other. And all of you seemed to feel that fixing the house was the best place to start, so...” He makes a helpless gesture. “So I welcomed the opportunity to make that happen. To make things right.” The words sound incredibly lame spoken aloud, much less coherent than when they were repeated inside his head. “It made sense at the time.”

Lydia shakes her head, baffled. “I - I don’t...” She gives up, standing and opening her cell. “I’m going to call everyone. Tell them what’s going on.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I assume you just want us to keep a low profile, right?” She looks to Derek for confirmation. He nods without hesitation.

“These people don’t know or care about you. They’ll only be interested in Jackson and me.” He looks at Allison. “Speaking of which, keep trying to get in touch with him. He hasn’t answered his phone yet.”

Allison bobs her head in assent, stands to follow Lydia out the front door. She pauses, stopping by the couch to lay her hand briefly on Derek’s shoulder. “You didn’t do it for selfish reasons,” she says firmly. “So that counts for something.”

Derek arches into the touch, shoots her a grateful look. The girls exit to the front porch, leaving him alone with Stiles.

The silence is deafening. The boy’s breathing is steady, though - his heartbeat regular. Derek isn’t sure whether to be relieved or nervous.

“How could you not tell me?” Stiles asks after a full five minutes. He shakes his head in wonderment, still not looking up. “How could you lie?”

Derek winces. “I didn’t lie,” he mutters. “I just felt it was something best kept between Jackson and myself. Don’t tell me there aren’t things you keep from me. There’s nothing wrong with a little privacy.”

Stiles does look up at that, incredulous. “Yeah, but nothing like _this_. This _affects_ us, Derek. All of us. This is fucking huge. This should at least have been put to a vote.”

“I’m the Alpha,” Derek retorts. “Sometimes, the rest of you don’t get a vote. You’re not _owed_ anything.”

Anger is rolling off of Stiles in thick waves now, noxious and burning hot. “Stop it, Derek. I hate it when you shut down like this. You can’t just act like we’re all a family for months and then suddenly pull rank. So don’t give me that ‘I’m the boss’ bullshit.”

“I am the boss, Stiles.” Derek’s eyes flash red. “I’ve tried to be a better Alpha than my uncle would have been, than most Alphas bother to be. But I’m still an Alpha, still a leader. And that means sometimes I get to make decisions without running them by you or anyone else. That’s what being a leader is.”

“Not when it’s something that could put as all in danger!” Stiles shouts, rising from his seat. “That’s when you have to clue us in. Because we should have made this choice together.”

Derek rubs his eyes tiredly. “You’re being petulant. You’re just upset that I kept something from you.” He fixes Stiles with a shrewd look. “You’re taking this too personally.”

Stiles chokes out a bitter laugh. “How should I take?”

“This wasn’t about us,” Derek answers readily. “It was about the pack. I made a call, and I see now that it was the wrong one. But I’m going to fix it.” Stiles shakes his head, backing away.

“If pack is family, then pack decisions are always personal,” he says. “How can they not be?” He turns away, folding his arms across his chest. Derek hears his heart skip a beat, scent suddenly changing from anger to fear. “You still think of me as a kid sometimes, don’t you? Even after everything. You didn’t tell me because you thought of it as ‘protecting me,’ didn’t you?”

Derek doesn’t say anything. It’s answer enough.

Stiles clenches his fists, slowly lets them relax. “Alright then,” he says dully. “What do we need to do now? About this guy who’s after you?”

Derek sits up, reaches for him. “Stiles...”

“What do we need to do?” Stiles repeats, jerking away from the touch. Derek lets his hand drop.

“Stay near the pack,” he says after a moment’s pause. “Stay near your father. Don’t try to call me or come near me for a few days. I’ll find Jackson, and he and I will deal with this together. It’ll be okay.”

He holds his breath, waiting for Stiles to explode again, waiting for him to refuse. Instead, the boy just nods loosely, walks towards the stairs. “Okay.” 

Derek watches him go. “Promise me you’ll do this,” he says softly. “I know you’re angry, but don’t do something stupid just to get back at me. Please stay safe.”

Stiles stops halfway up the steps, glancing back over the banister to look at him. “I promise.” And then he’s moving out of view.

Derek waits for the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut before he stands, exits through the front door. The girls are waiting for him on the porch, Lydia staring off into the distance with a carefully schooled expression that clearly indicates she heard their entire conversation.

“Let’s go,” Derek grumbles, moving past them towards the car.

From the upstairs window, Stiles watches them drive down the street, squints in the light of the afternoon sun. As soon as the car rounds the bend, he ducks down and opens the bottom right drawer of his desk. He removes the false panel at the back and pulls out a brown paper bag. Dropping it to the surface of his desk, it makes a metallic clink.

 

**XI.**

Chris zips up his rifle into the black bag, hiding it under the tarp before closing the trunk. He comes around to the side of the car, finds Victoria waiting for him on the front lawn. They look ate each other for a long, quiet minute.

She breaks first. “So you’re going,” she says. 

He nods. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

Another long pause. Victoria stares at a spot somewhere over Chris’ shoulder, unable to look him in the eye. “Are we-” She stops, swallows. “Is this it for us? For you and me?”

Chris closes his eyes. He rubs the back of his head ruefully, sets his tongue in the corner of his cheek. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I hope not.”

A bird chirps in the trees. Victoria steps forward, moving stiffly. She pulls him into an uncomfortable hug, pats him on the back. “Happy hunting,” she says.

Chris nods, stepping away. They look at each other for another minute before he finally turns, climbing into the car and driving away down the road.

Victoria stands out alone on the lawn for some time after, staring at the empty street.

 

**XII.**

The pay-phone booth is rusty and battered, windows smudged and frame tilted at an angle. It looks as though it’s been out of use for decades.

But no, it works just fine, and Whitaker only has to wait two rings before the line connects.

“Hello?”

“This is Morgan Whitaker. We spoke.” He examines his fingernails, cracks his knuckles. He can hear the man on the other end of the line breathing raggedly - probably just come out of a nap.

“Ah. Uh, yes. What is...is there a problem? Is it done?”

“No. No problem, and it’s not done.” He looks down at his left shoe, uses the sole of the right to clean off a lingering speck of blood. “There has, however, been a complication. Nothing I cannot handle, but I shall require a higher compensation.”

He hears grumbling - not unexpected. “I thought we’d reached a fair agreement on the terms of your payment. Are you trying to back out of your contract now, or-”

“Not backing out,” Whitaker interrupts. “The circumstances of the job have changed. The job has become more complex, more difficult. Therefore, I am entitled to greater payment. This is the basic nature of business.”

The man on the other end coughs, mutters something about ‘goddam lunatics’ and clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll draw something up. Call me back at this number in an hour.”

“Yes.”

Whitaker hangs up.

Stepping out of the booth, he walks down the street, turns into a dark alleyway and disappears into the shadows.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Out of the Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/452203) by [RonnieMinor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieMinor/pseuds/RonnieMinor)




End file.
